


The Season of the Wolf

by TheDreamsOfTheAges (LadyOfTheSouthernIsles)



Category: Hellboy (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfTheSouthernIsles/pseuds/TheDreamsOfTheAges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the cold depths of winter, savage predators stalk the land, seeking what they can in the frozen forests and fields.  And in the cold depths of winter, savage death will seek them out...  The start of the rot in Nuada and Balor’s relationship.  Set c.1700BC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work._

**_Circa 1700BC_**  
The low light of the season cut across the woodland clearing, throwing the landscape into stark relief as the bleak, grey sky pressed in on the surrounding coppice. A light fall of snow lay cold on the earth, frosting the bare limbs of the trees and doing its indifferent best to conceal all sign of the atrocities committed here in hours not long past.

But the fine mantle did not deceive the sharp eyes of the watching warriors. Their great war horses stamped their hooves on the frozen ground and snorted impatiently whilst the _madraí cogadh_ growled and yelped in protest at the sudden stop. The riders paid no heed to either the demands of the spirited stallions or the complaints of the dogs. Nor did they remark the bitter cold that cut through the thick weave of their fur-lined cloaks and seeped in under their tooled-leather armour. Breath turned to mist in the frigid air as, transfixed, they beheld the awful sight before them. Though most were used to the grim realities of battle, this was a scene of devastation and carnage that few had ever seen before even despite nature's efforts to erase the ugliness.

A small settlement which had once thrived with all the life and activity of a dozen or so families now lay silent, the lifeless remains of its inhabitants wrapped in the white winding sheet of winter and the charred ruins of their homes no longer anything more than dirty smudges on the pristine landscape. Elven blood mingled with the blood of slaughtered livestock... and with that of several humans who also lay dead on the ground, the remains of _their_ earthly flesh telling the tale of what had happened here.

For long moments, no one spoke; there were no words for slaughter like this. Hard, lapidified bodies – warm, living, breathing once – lay with legs splayed wide, the obscene angles attesting to the fate those now inanimate women had endured before they died. Other bodies - the largest ones - lay in pieces, the hewn parts offering silent proof of the fierce fighting that had gone on in the forest glade. But it was the smallest and most fragile of the bodies which bore the worst signs of brutal use; those tiny remains looked like the discarded playthings of cruel, vicious minds... minds that knew nothing of mercy in any guise.

His horse snorted and shifted impatiently under him once more, this time capturing the young elven warrior's attention. He tore his unwilling gaze from the ghastly scene as he leaned forward to give his steed a pat. The comforting touch was as much for himself as for his mount; the long fall of his pale, gilt-tipped hair shielded his face from the others in the company as he struggled to contain his feelings. Though he'd served his time in the ranks of his father's army, this was only his second command and for the briefest instant he felt the full weight of his relative inexperience. But a black, burning anger rose to the fore, and Nuada pushed aside the uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt.

He straightened up and looked at the other warriors under his command. The order to see to the dead and restore what dignity they could to the abused, broken bodies of their kinsfolk was on the tip of his tongue when a keening wail rent the still, cold air. Nuada whipped round and spied a young elven woman standing frozen on the opposite edge of the clearing, gazing in horror at the wreckage of the settlement. Just behind her was a much younger male, barely more than a child really. He too was shocked and upset.

As the woman's wail died away, from deep in the forest behind her came an answering cry: the bone-chilling howl of a lone wolf. The woman didn't move; she continued to stand like a statue, oblivious to the danger that lurked in the trees as she stared at the ruins of her village. The youth glanced anxiously at the carcass of a slain goat lying not far from them and started to tug on the woman's sleeve. She didn't as much as blink.

Nuada frowned. After motioning for one of his comrades to follow, he gathered up the reins and urged his horse forward with a gentle nudge of his knees. He knew the danger the woman and boy were in even though a dozen armed and mounted warriors and a pack of elven war dogs stood close by. In this season, the Season of the Wolf, the starving predators were often driven to desperate measures by the scarcity of food, and he doubted that even he could persuade the creature lurking in the trees to leave the pair alone if it thought they were keeping it from a few snatched morsels of food.

As he rode around the edge of the clearing, over to where the woman and youth were standing, he drew his sword; gleaming elven silver hissed against leather-bound wood. He reined in his horse and scanned the trees behind the pair, his sharp eyes looking for any sign of danger. Seeing none, he instructed his companion to keep watch and then swung down from the saddle and walked over to the stricken villagers.

" _Máistreás_ ," said he, addressing the woman and holding out his gloved hand to her. "We should move to the other side of the clearing. There is greater safety in numbers."

She neither moved nor spoke as she continued to stare blankly at the stark wreckage of her life.

" _Máistreás_?" he prompted.

Still she made no reply.

Nuada turned and looked at the youth. "What is her name?"

"She is my sister, sir - Sadhbh," replied the young lad, glancing anxiously at her. "She - she will be worried for her... her babe." His voice trailed off as his gaze was drawn to a ruined home on the far side of the village.

The elven prince swung round and followed the line of the youth's eyes; _M_ _áistreás_ Sadhbh would not find her child alive; her home had burned to ashes and her baby likely turned to dust with it. A hot sheet of anger sliced through him at the thought; he had to tamp it down before looking at the distraught woman again. He reached out to take her by the arm and lead her away but she suddenly moved, galvanised by Aiglin only knew what.

Brushing past Nuada, she ran into the centre of the razed settlement and stood there for a moment, glancing around wildly. Then she ran towards her burnt-out home and started tearing frantically at the ruins with her bare hands, muttering all the while in low, disbelieving tones.

Nuada turned to the youth again. "Go to the other side of the clearing," he said, pointing in the direction of the other warriors. "I will see to your sister."

The lad did as he was told and Nuada quickly made for the young woman, sheathing his sword as he went. He tried speaking to her but she did not listen; he tried taking hold of her but she only pushed him away, her desperation lending her a strength she might not have had otherwise. For the second time that day the young elven warrior found himself at a loss; he did not want to hurt the woman by forcing her to leave off her futile search and all he could do was stare helplessly at her for some moments.

... ...

From the other side of the clearing, Uileog de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar watched the newly-commissioned _captaen._ Though the prince cut a tall, commanding figure in black riding leathers and dark brown fur, Uileog had a heavy frown on his brow. The scene they'd come upon had shocked even him, one of the oldest and longest-serving warriors in the _Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae,_ and he had quickly realised that this would be a hard test indeed for his young charge, for _Rí_ Balor had entrusted to Uileog the task of watching over his son in these early days of the prince's first command.

On this particular day, following reports of unusual human activity in the area, Nuada had taken a small detachment from the _Gardaí Capall_ to patrol the southern borderlands and ensure the humans did not encroach too far into the Fae realm as they were wont to do from time to time. One of the scouts had returned with a report of smoke rising from behind a distant ridge, and the company had gone to investigate.

 _And what a discovery to make_ , thought Uileog. His eyes flickered briefly over the carnage in the clearing then returned to the lean, powerful frame of the young warrior. Even at this age, Nuada showed a strength of mind, body and spirit that marked him out as a natural leader. But as the prince watched the distressed mother in her feverish search, Uileog noted a seldom-seen air of uncertainty about him. He was about to head over to see if he couldn't offer a suggestion or two, when the prince seemed to make up his mind to something.

... ...

Nuada left the other warrior to keep watch, and returned to the main group. On reaching the others, he snapped out a series of orders, his voice ringing clear and confident in the crisp, winter air. Three of the warriors were dispatched to help their comrade stand guard around the perimeter of the clearing, and another was ordered to keep a close watch over the young woman as she went about her desperate search. Nuada instructed the young lad to help his sister as best he could, and directed the remaining seven of the company to see to the horses and then gather up the dead.

He looked on grimly as they went about their appointed tasks. Though he was the Crown Prince of Bethmoora, his commission had not been handed to him on a plate; he'd had to earn it in the same way as every other _captaen_ in the _Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae_ , and he knew that here and now he must prove his worth to his king and his people, and serve them to the best of his ability. They could not afford for him to be indecisive and he swore to himself that there would be no more lapses.

Out in the trees, the wolf howled once more. This time, other ravening voices joined in. The elven war dogs increased their fretful pacing, pausing every now and then to bare their fangs and snarl at the unseen foe. Nuada knew that if he but said the word they would be off like lightning; the starving wolves would not stand a chance. He barked out a sharp order and the dogs came to heel. Crouching down before them, he removed one of his thick leather gloves as they sniffed at him and pushed their noses up against him. "Patience, my friends," he murmured, stroking the head of the alpha dog and tickling it behind its ears. "We have another quarry to run to ground. You will get your chance soon enough." His hard, chiselled features twisted in sneering disdain as he thought about the base creatures who had done this to his people.

A sudden retching sound broke in on his thoughts, startling him, and he quickly stood, sending the dogs scampering as he pulled on his glove again. Turning around, he saw one of the other young warriors, Cearul, leaning against a blackened piece of upright timber and gritting his teeth as if against a heaving stomach. He was staring in horror at something on the ground in front of him.

Nuada joined him and when he saw what the other elf was looking at, he almost retched himself. In amongst the burnt timbers, Cearul had discovered three elven babies impaled end to end on a long, bronze-tipped pikestaff, their little faces twisted in torment, their tiny mouths frozen forever in silent screams of agony.

He hadn't thought it possible but Nuada's hatred for the unknown human assailants soared to new heights. An overwhelming urge to kill consumed him; his muscles instinctively flexed and hardened in readiness. Drawing several deep breaths, he regained some semblance of control and knelt beside the sad, abused little forms. He stared at them for a long moment, his mouth a thin, dark line of anger. The long fall of his pale hair swayed as he shook his head in grim disbelief. Reaching out a pale, white hand, he lightly touched the wooden shaft of the pikestaff. Though he hadn't been able to save them, there was one last thing he could do for the baby elves.

He looked to the sky and from within the gossamer threads of Light woven through the very fabric of Eternity itself, summoned the magic of his kind. As he murmured the words of enchantment in the ancestral tongue of his people, a soft, golden glow emanated from his hands and the wooden staff slowly dissolved until at last, there was no trace left of the brutal weapon except for the bronze tip. The magic faded and Nuada looked back down at the perfectly-formed little bodies, free now from their cruel prison. He carefully picked up one small form and handed the girl-child up to Cearul, who had regained his composure and was waiting to lend whatever assistance he could to his _captaen_.

Without a word, Cearul took the dead babe from the elven prince's hands and headed over to where the adults' bodies had been laid out. Nuada gathered up the two remaining children - boys both - and stood. Cradling them gently in his arms, he followed Cearul and after laying them down beside the body of one of the adults turned his attention back to the scene around him.

As he stood there, clenching his fists and staring at the wreckage through a black-gold haze of anger, another of the younger warriors, Lorcan, approached.

"What about the humans, sir?" he asked as he reached his _captaen_.

"What about them?" Nuada skewered him with a sharp, auriferous look.

"Should - should we bury them now or-or later, sir? After we've performed the _deasghnátha naofa_ ," said Lorcan, suddenly unsure of his ground. He had never seen the young prince in such a dark mood though admittedly he hadn't served long with him.

The other elf's bewilderment pierced the shield of Nuada's rage and he attempted to rein in his temper; it was not well done of him to take his anger out on the younger warrior and he forced his mind to Lorcan's question.

It was the practice of the Fae to respect the bodies of the dead, including those of fallen foe, but having seen how the humans had treated his own people this day, the gorge rose in Nuada's throat at the thought of offering even the smallest token of regard to the half-dozen or so fleshly corpses that lay scattered amongst the elven dead. As he considered his dilemma, the wolves' eerie chorus resonated with renewed urgency from deep in the forest.

He swung his head towards the sound, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the bare, snow-covered trees from where it had come. Piercing howls cut the air once more and with them came a ruthless but entirely fitting solution though Nuada knew that later, when he made his report to the king, his father, he would be held to account for it.

He turned back to Lorcan. "No! Take their filthy carcasses to the edge of the clearing, along with those of the slaughtered livestock. Their own kind did not bother to attend to them and nor will we! The wolves can have them!"

Lorcan started in surprise.

"But remember," continued Nuada. "Keep back a piece of clothing. The _madraí cogadh_ will need it later... for the scent!"

For the briefest instant, Lorcan baulked at leaving the human remains for the wolves but as he looked into the hard eyes of his _captaen_ , a grim sense of rightness settled upon him. He'd seen things that day which he never wanted to see again and he found himself in complete agreement with the prince. Unable to hide the cold gleam of satisfaction in his own eyes, he inclined his head in acknowledgment and went off to carry out his orders.

Nuada frowned as he watched him go. The younger warrior had reminded him of the need to perform the Rites for the Dead in respect of their slain kinsfolk, and carry out the Purification Ritual; the ancient Gods needed to be appeased and the woodland cleansed of the dark stain which now hung over it. Only _then_ could they set out after the rest of the murdering humans and appease their own need for justice.

The young _captaen_ spied out Uileog and went to consult with the older elf on the requirements for the _Deasghnátha na Marbh_ and the _Dóiteán Íonú._ They hadn't been talking long when Tadhg, another of the warriors, suddenly cried out to his companions.

"Over here! I've found a survivor!"

At his call, Nuada and Uileog broke off their conversation and hastened over to him. Under the scorched timbers of a wrecked dwelling, Tadhg had discovered a boy of some fourteen or fifteen summers. He was badly burnt and near insensate with shock and pain. Though elves could withstand flame and heat, they weren't immune to a conflagration. Most of the youth's flesh had been consumed by the fire and it was clear he was in a very bad way. Nuada and Uileog knelt at the injured boy's side along with Tadhg. Each had a grim look on his face; it was clear the young elf would not survive.

"Not even the most skilled of the elven healers can help him now," murmured Uileog. "All we can do is make his last moments on this earth as comfortable as possible. Lend your hands to him."

Uileog placed his palms on the boy's chest and Nuada and Tadhg did the same. The three of them called upon their magic and a soft, golden glow radiated from their hands as the older elf whispered the words of enchantment to ease the boy's passing.

An expression of calm soon fell across the dying youth's face and for a short while he recovered his senses. In a hoarse and broken voice, he told of how a large band of human marauders had ridden into the village and attacked without warning. Though the elven farmers had mounted a valiant defence, the raiders had greatly outnumbered them, and held the upper hand from the start. They'd been after livestock, gemstones, and the precious metals from which the elves forged their tools and weapons. Before they looted the village, they'd raped the women and then put everyone to the sword, from the most ancient and revered of the elders to the youngest of the defenceless newborns.

As the boy recounted his tale, Nuada vowed silently – and not for the first time that day - that the humans involved would pay dearly for their base, depraved actions.

The fatally injured youth breathed his last not long afterwards, and it was with heavy hearts that the warriors laid out his blackened, stone body with those of his kinsfolk. No other survivors were found and the thoughts of the living turned to the _deasghnátha naofa_.

As the oldest and most experienced of the company, Uileog would lead the rituals. Whilst he prepared for them, Nuada went to check on the young elven mother. She was still searching through the ruins, and with only a little less fervour than before. Her simple clothes and slender, white hands were blackened with soot, and her cheeks were smudged and dirty. Whether she trembled from the effort of her labours or from the depth of her distress, Nuada couldn't say. He looked over at the woman's brother, who was watching her forlornly, then walked up to the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. "How are you bearing up?" he asked.

"I-I don't know," replied the young elf, bewilderment and grief clear in his voice.

"Tell me how you came to escape the slaughter here," said Nuada.

"We – we were gathering wild thyme, and other winter herbs... in - in the woods, on the other side of the ridge," replied the boy. "We had no idea..." His voice trailed off and there was a pause. "What – what will happen to us now?" he asked with apprehension.

"We'll take you back to Bethmoora with us. The king will see to your welfare," Nuada assured him. "First though, we will hunt down the rest of the filth that did this and make sure they pay for their transgressions."

The boy shot him a worried look, which Nuada correctly interpreted. "I'll leave a guard here with you and your sister, and we'll come back for you once we've run the humans to ground."

The young elf nodded and turned his attention back to his sister.

"Tell her we are about to start the rituals," said Nuada. "She will have to stop for those." It was clear from his tone there would be no compromise on that point. "Can you make her listen, do you think?" he asked, his pale brow creasing slightly. He would prefer she left off her futile search of her own accord rather than requiring him to force her away from it.

"I'll see that she does," the youth replied.

"Good lad. What is your name?"

"Faolán, sir," replied the boy, with quiet pride.

Nuada stared at him for a long moment. "You have had to grow up quickly today, Faolán," he murmured at last. "I wish it were otherwise. See to your sister now." He then left the young elf to the job of persuading the woman to cease in her efforts, at least for the duration of the ceremonies.

... ...

It was now late afternoon and all was ready. Though it hadn't been easy, Faolán had convinced Sadhbh to leave off her search and attend the observance of the rituals. He stood with her alongside the warriors who had been tasked with providing a guard for them. Using the magic of their kind, the other elves had restored some semblance of order and dignity to their slain kinsfolk, and it was time to start the ceremonies. The dark-clad forms of the living alternated with amber-coloured clusters of the dead to form a large circle in the middle of the clearing. The fallen would be included in one last act of magic before they were consigned back to the care of the earth.

The _Dóiteán Íonú_ was the first ritual to be performed; the glade had to be rid of the weight of the day's dark deeds before the Rites for the Dead could be undertaken. Uileog was to lead the proceedings and as elven royalty, Nuada stood opposite him, on the western point of the circle. The older elf raised his arms and began chanting in his ancestral tongue. As he intoned the words of summoning, calling forth the cleansing fire, the others raised their arms and touched the stone bodies on either side of them, forming a link between the world of the living and the land of the ancestors, and lending their magic to the task.

In the centre of the circle, a white-gold light appeared and in the grey, winter gloom, a delicate ethereal flame began to burn, shimmering and sparkling like flecks of sunlight. Fine filaments spread out from the centre, and soon the whole clearing was agleam with a myriad of glittering flames, which neither scorched nor singed as they danced amongst the grass in the meadow. A faint, tinkling, harmony chimed through the air, and elven ears hearkened to the sound, delighting in its celestial notes. And although the land lay fast in the grip of winter and spring was many weeks distant, a soft, delicate perfume filled the air as though the fields and meadows were abloom with the all budding, vernal life of a thousand flowers.

As Uileog worked the enchantment, the dark, heavy air which hung over the glade grew lighter, and the suffocating, grey cloak of the clouds rolled back. Breath came more easily, and it struck Nuada that he hadn't realised until then just how oppressive the atmosphere had been. By the time the magic fire burnt itself out, none could be in any doubt that the ancient Gods were appeased and the stain of the day's events was now lifted from the clearing.

With the land being tended to, it was now the turn of the dead. Uileog began to intone the words which would mark their journey to the realm of the ancestors and consign their lapidified remains back to the care of the earth. Though they would dwell for all time in the memory of their people - travelling down through the ages with them, as the dead do - their light was now lost to this world and would remain, from this day forward, forever hidden from earthly eyes.

Nuada's mind wandered as the familiar words of farewell washed over him. He looked at those gathered in the clearing, the living and the dead. A sudden thought whispered through his mind; it would be a hard fate indeed to die alone, in darkness and amongst strangers and unremarked by the rites and rituals of his people. He shook off the disturbing image.

His golden eyes no longer burned with rage; rather they flickered thoughtfully over the lapidified figures in the circle. Those kinsfolk would lie here now, the planes and angles of life slowly wearing away in the weather of the centuries until at last, there would be no vestige of the people they had once been. Lichen would cover the smooth, pale, amber-coloured stones, and birds and insects would alight on their surfaces from time to time. Others of their kind – the living – might pass by every now and then, and stop to rest their backs against the menhirs as they paused in their journeys. And the dead would continue to stand in the glade, silent sentinels for all seasons, until the tide of time finally wore them away.

As Nuada stared at the stone figures, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the trees, striking the snow in front of him and turning it for an instant into a glistening ripple of sun-dappled silver. Then the sun sank below the horizon and the effect was gone, along with the last remnants of the day. For some moments, all within the glade was quiet, motionless, as if time itself had stopped. But the rituals were performed and night was falling, and the silent still soon passed.

In the gathering darkness, Nuada discovered that his burning anger had coalesced into a cold, hard fury that would only be satisfied when the vicious miscreants who'd dealt so savagely with his kind had been brought to account. It was time to turn his mind to more practical matters, namely the hunting down of those depraved creatures, and the meting out of elven justice to avenge the needless deaths of the _tuath_ of the forest.

The warriors moved off, leaving only the silent dead to form the circle now. No orders were necessary; each member of the company knew what was required. It was the night of the Quiet Moon, and the silver light of the celestial sphere would suffice for elven eyes to see by as they went about their work.

First, they attended to the needs of the woman and her brother, erecting a rough shelter for them and fortifying it with a stronghold charm which would conceal them and provide some measure of protection. Three warriors would also remain to stand guard until the main party returned.

Next, they lightened the load on their horses. The spirited steeds had been well-rested in the intervening hours but much would be asked of them that night; the ride would be hard, and the fighting harder. Bedrolls were dispensed with, food was cooked and eaten. Heavy cloaks would not be needed but armour would. Finally, they were ready.

Nuada walked over to those of the company who were to remain behind on guard. "We'll be back by dawn," he said. "Humans travel neither quickly nor by night, and our business with them will be concluded before the sun rises. See that the woman and boy are ready to travel by then. _We_ will rest when we return to Bethmoora."

"Yes, sir," replied one of the elves.

Satisfied that there was nothing more to be done, Nuada strode over to his horse and swung up onto its back with an easy, fluid grace that spoke of long hours spent in the saddle. With a light press of his knees, he guided his mount to the centre of the clearing, where the rest of the company waited.

All of a sudden the wind picked up, and from deep in the trees came the bone-chilling howls of the wolves once more; they seemed to sense that they were not the quarry this night.

The elven war dogs were given the humans' scent and at Nuada's command, they set off across the clearing, low, threatening growls issuing from their throats, fangs bared as they disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

Nuada gave the word to the grim-faced warriors. With soft, clicking sounds, they urged their horses on, letting them have their heads, and in the blink of an eye, the great war stallions were following the _madraí cogadh_. They fairly flew over the cold, hard ground, nostrils flaring, dark eyes flashing, and drumming hooves thundering out into in the night.

The wild ride had begun and at its head was Nuada, his lean muscled frame bent low over the withers, his long gilt-tipped hair streaming silver in the moonlight. He looked back once, and then no more. His dark lips formed a thin line of uncompromising determination against the pale, stone-chiselled planes of his face and his hard, flame-gold eyes were filled with cold, certain death.

 

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).

Deasghnátha na Marbh: (Irish Gaelic) Rites for the Dead.

Deasghnátha naofa: (Irish Gaelic) sacred rituals.

Dóiteán Íonú: (Irish Gaelic) Purification Ritual. (Dóiteán = 'fire', meaning cleansing fire in this sense.)

Faolán(FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.

Gardaí Capall na Bethmoora: (Irish Gaelic) The Horse Guards of Bethmoora (the cavalry).

Lapidify: To change to stone [from French _lapidifier,_ from Medieval Latin _lapidificāre,_ ultimately from Latin _lapis_ stone].

Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.

Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.

Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) Mistress.

Quiet Moon: Celtic name for the full moon in January.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Sadhbh(SAH-eev): (Irish Gaelic) name likely meaning 'sweet' or 'goodness'.

Season of the Wolf: in old Europe, winter was known as the Season of the Wolf because wolves were forced by a scarcity of food to leave the forests and scavenge in outlying villages.

Tadhg (TAYG): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'poet' or 'philosopher'.

Tuath (plural _tuatha_ ): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".

Uileog de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar: (Irish Gaelic) Uileog (IH-lig) – name meaning 'resolute protector'; de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar – phrase meaning 'of wise counsel'.


	2. Chapter 2

Beyond the trees, a low-lying hill rose up from the flat expanse of snowy fields. Silver shafts of cloud-cut moonlight reached down to caress the stony, moss-covered ruins on the crest but were quickly chased away by the burnished flames of five or six large fires which blazed within the sheltering circle of the ancient fort. A sudden chorus of raucous laughter shattered the crystal stillness of the night, telling the world that Man had staked a claim to this place now. But from deep in the forest, under the watching eyes of the night, a piercing howl rang out as if to dispute that claim. The laughter faltered for a moment and then the discordant voices settled back into a dull drone…

"More wood on the fire, ye fool!" Garbhán didn't even bother to look at his son as he barked out the order.

"Aye, _da_ ," mumbled Treasach. He gently laid down his fretting bundle and struggled to his feet.

Garbhán sneered as the shambling youth made his way over to the bramble thicket, and the great pile of branches his men had gathered in the forest earlier. He was about to tell the idiot to get a move along when a distressed wail from the baby caught his attention, and he turned to glare at her instead. "Shut yer gob, ye elven brat!" His lips twisted in a snarl and he spat at the crying infant for good measure. But his burst of satisfaction was short-lived; when he lifted his head, he found his simpleton of a son staring at him. The flickering fire-cast shadows gave the fool's twisted features an even more grotesque appearance than usual, and the _Toísech_ shuddered with loathing.

Treasach was torn; _Dadaí_ had given him an order and fool though he was, he knew better than to disobey it. But the poor baby was frightened and hungry, and he didn't want to leave her on her own. _Da's_ raised fist helped him make up his mind; he shuffled off towards the pile of branches with an anxious look on his crooked face.

"Why'd ye let him take it for anyway?" asked Mathúin. He belched and tore off another mouthful of meat from the goat's shank he'd managed to get his hands on.

"To stop the idiot from blubbering an' pissin' himself again!" chipped in Ruadh. "Ow!" A greasy chunk of bone caught him square in the forehead, putting an end to his helpful observations.

"An' you can shut yer mouth too!" snarled Garbhán as the other man rubbed his head. What Ruadh said was true enough, and that ate away at Garbhán's pride like nothing else could. Treasach… the son who had been born under an auspicious omen, and named accordingly. The one who'd had a great prophecy cast for him by the Druids – _all_ _the Heavens, and the Earth too, will bear witness to his valour and his name will not be forgotten,_ they'd said… He should have been the crowning glory in Garbhán's achievements. Instead, five summers after he'd been born, the boy had fallen under the hooves of his father's horse and Garbhán's high-flown hopes for the _Clan na_ _Dáirine_ had been trampled into the dust along with Treasach's body and mind. For the promise given to Treasach at birth had been a promise given to his clan too, and though there were others who would make good enough leaders when Garbhán passed from this world, none of them had had a great future scried for them like Treasach had. It was all gone now and to add insult to injury, Garbhán was stuck with a son who was worse than useless. 'Twould have been better had the mangled lump of flesh been left to die but oh no! A prophecy had been foretold and so the Druids and the Healers strove mightily to save him. They had succeeded too - in keeping him breathing, at least - and Treasach's prophecy had become a stone to weigh around Garbhán's neck these last nine years.

"Should have just killed it," muttered Berach, who was now the clan's tanist.

"Aye, and so I would have if they'd let me," replied Garbhán, his gaze fixed firmly on his son as the boy struggled back with an armload of wood.

Berach followed the line of his cousin's eyes. "I was talkin' about the elven brat," he murmured under his breath.

"What?" Garbhán's head whipped round and he glared at his man.

At that moment, the baby started crying in earnest and the men nearby stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her distressed sobs grated on already frayed nerves. "Shut the bloody thing up!" one of them yelled. Several of the others took up his call.

"Give it here! I'll show ye how it's done," shouted another, seizing up his pikestaff and waving it in the baby's direction.

Treasach paled and froze.

"Nay!" cried out someone else. "Let Mathúin do it! He got _three_ of them on his spear today!" There was a low hum of admiration at the reminder of Mathúin's skilful feat.

"So I did," said the man himself. Spittle and goat's meat flew from his mouth. "Up the arse and out the head! Gotta be quick though! Get it done before they turn to stone otherwise there's no doing it at all." Mathúin's sagacity won him another murmur of approval from his comrades. He belched again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The baby's crying grew even louder and more frantic.

"No one will be showin' anyone anything!" snapped Garbhán. "Treasach! You'll get something sharp up _your_ arse if ye don't shut that little piece of shite up now!" His voice dropped as he turned back to Berach. "And don't you worry yourself none. It'll be joining its kinsfolk soon enough."

Berach merely snorted and took a swig of ale from the leather jug he'd been nursing on his knee.

Spurred on by his father's threat, Treasach moved again as quickly as he could. He reached the fire and dumped his armload of branches onto the flames before sitting back down beside the baby to attempt the all but hopeless task of getting her to settle. A good hiding seemed a foregone conclusion but just as he had resigned himself to the fact, a sudden gust of wind whooshed in across the top of the rise, causing the flames of the fires to career wildly. The livestock shifted restlessly and the tethered horses bridled and whinnied as it whistled past. Every human, to a man, jumped at the eerie groan that filled the air.

"By _Taranis_!" gasped Berach, choking on a mouthful of grog. "What was that?"

"'Tis a _bean-sídhe_ , to be sure," replied Ruadh, thumping Berach vigorously on the back. He was glad of the opportunity to cover his own fright and his tone was not so much helpful as sly. "Or maybe a _taibhse._ You know, one of them elven bitches ye rode to death today. Come back for more 'cause ye left her wantin'."

There was a loud guffaw of laughter from the other men gathered around the fire but it was bravado for the most part. Though they had cause to celebrate, thanks to their successful raid on the elven village, the sun had set now and they were on edge. The nasty thought occurred to more than one man that it was the voices of the eldritch dead coming to them on the wind, and each was quick to grab hold of the chance to mask his own fear even if it was at his clansman's expense.

Berach came up fighting though. "Ah! Well! At least I had the sense to take me pizzle out _before_ I killed them."

Another guffaw of laughter, real amusement this time. Most of those present had seen the look of sheer panic on Ruadh's face when one of the women he'd raped and killed that afternoon had started to turn to stone before he'd gotten clear of her, and those who hadn't actually seen it for themselves had soon heard all about it.

Ruadh scowled at the reminder.

Berach continued. "There was a time or two there I thought we'd have to cut off _your_ pizzle – to save ye from the cold embrace of a stony elven snatch, _ye know_!"

More laughter. "Ha! Well put, Berach!" someone called out. "The bit about cuttin' off his pizzle, that is!"

"Aye, and his pizzle is only a little bit too!" said another man. "Maybe 'twas a _taibhse_ come back for you, Ruadh!"

Ruadh sprang to his feet and took a threatening step towards his tormentors. "Why, I'll - "

"Enough!" shouted Garbhán over the noise. He knew his men and he knew that if he let them run on, it wouldn't be long before the talk returned to his own humiliation that day. Speaking of which… His eyes sought out Treasach; the fool was fussing over that damned elven brat! To Garbhán's annoyance, it had quietened down when the wind blew through and he no longer had any reason to give his idiot son a good belt. Not that he needed a reason; it was just that it was too cold for him to bother getting up without one. He drew his fur-lined cloak more closely around himself, his lip curling in disgust as he continued to stare at the hunched figure sitting apart from the others. As usual, it was more than he could bear and he swiftly turned his gaze to the hypnotic flames of the fire instead.

He had brought the fool on this raid to teach him a thing or two, make as much of a man of him as he could – maybe even see him killed, if he was really lucky - but so far it was looking set to be one of the worst ideas he'd ever had. Garbhán shook his head at his own folly. Why he'd ever thought the simpleton might be inspired to change his ways was beyond him. The boy had seen plenty that day to know how to be going on but when Garbhán had tossed him a bit of elven snatch, the idiot had done what he always did whenever he was faced with anything which upset him; he'd burst into tears and pissed himself, and then he'd stumbled off to hide in one of the villagers' huts, leaving Garbhán to see to the weeping, wailing bitch himself. Not that that had been any great hardship once he'd thumped her into submission. She'd been a tasty young piece. Or at least, Garbhán thought she'd been young; it was hard to tell with the _Aes Sídhe_. But that wasn't the point. No, the fool had embarrassed his father and to make matters worse, he had found that squalling little lump of elven shite inside the hut. He'd come shuffling back out quick enough when he realised the place was about to be put to the torch but he hadn't had the sense to leave the puling whelp behind. And then when Garbhán had tried to take it off him - to kill it – sure enough, the tears had threatened and the snow under the idiot's feet had started to turn a pale, dirty yellow. In the end, it had just been easier to let him have the damn thing.

"Will those beasts see us through to _Imbolc_ , d' ye think?" Berach's question broke in on Garbhán's dark musings. Ruadh was sitting down again by now and the talk had turned to the spoils of the day, and the losses too. Several heads, Garbhán's included, turned to stare at the stolen elven livestock sheltering on the far side of the ruins, beyond the fires.

"They'll have to," replied the _Toísech_. "We've picked as much of the meat off the bones in these parts as we can for now and 'tis not the season to be ranging any further afield than this."

There was a murmur of agreement from the others. The summer just gone had been a very successful one for the reivers of the _Clan na_ _Dáirine_ and there were not too many human settlements between the Mountains of Arigneach to the west and the Seas of Lir to the east which hadn't been forced to give up something to them, be it weapons, livestock and grain, or women of breeding age. The clan had also added to its ranks of fighting men with some of those from the holdings they'd raided swearing allegiance to the Chief of the Name. In addition, a good number of itinerant travellers had recognised the benefits of joining up with a larger group and several strategic marriages had seen an increase in the fortunes of the tribe. The Gods had most assuredly smiled on the _Clan na Dáirine_ that summer and the men were secure in their favour.

"There's still plenty of meat left on _some_ bones in these parts," said Mathúin as he tore off another mouthful of goat's flesh.

"Aye, so there is," agreed Berach. "Plenty of meat left on _elven_ bones."

He had barely gotten the words out when a second gust of wind blew in. As before, the horses and livestock moved restlessly and the flames of the fires in the ancient fortress flared in a mad, flickering dance. And once again, the noise of the humans stopped abruptly as the groaning wind swept across the rise.

Garbhán made an effort to carry on as if nothing had disturbed him. "I know," he said, in answer to Mathúin and Berach's comments. "But I don't want to push our luck - not just yet. I would rather we _didn't_ attract the Elf King's attention for the moment."

Mathúin glanced uneasily towards the darkness before turning a skeptical eye on his Chieftain. "D' ye not think we'll be attractin' a bit of attention after today's doings then?"

"'Twas a risk worth taking," snapped Garbhán.

"Ah!" said the other man, as if that explained everything. He belched again and then proved that it didn't. "And how would that be then, Garbhán?"

The Chieftain gritted his teeth; for all Mathúin's skill with the pikestaff, there were times when he could be an even bigger fool than Treasach.

Berach saved Garbhán the trouble of answering. "'Tis the middle of bloody winter, man! You know there's no one abroad at this time of year and word is slow to get round, if it gets round at all. And besides, there's no one in the village left alive to carry any tales – well, at least none that _can_ carry any tales." He eyed the tiny elven baby cradled in Treasach's arms.

"Don't ye fash yerself, Mathúin," counselled Ruadh, as if he were speaking to a child. "Eld Balor will be sittin' snug by his hearth right now and by the time he finds out about that village, we'll be sittin' snug by ours."

"And safe too, here's hoping," muttered Mathúin, with a dark look at Ruadh.

"Sitting safe and snug by a hearth never increased any clan's holdings," Garbhán pointed out tersely. "How many men did we lose today?" he asked, of no one in particular.

"Five," replied Berach, "and twice that number wounded - six of them badly."

"Will they live, d' ye think?" The _Toísech_ looked over to the fire where the wounded were being tended to.

"One or two might… if they're lucky!"

"Then if they're still alive come morning, we'll take them with us," said Garbhán.

"And the others?" asked Berach even though he already knew the answer.

"No sense carrying dead weight – or nearly dead weight." Garbhán frowned as he did some quick calculations. "So that leaves just under four dozen fighting fit men in our party now and another four dozen back home, guarding our own village."

"It does," confirmed Berach.

Garbhán bent his head and thought about that for a few moments before coming to a decision; it was time to lay out his plans before his men. He looked up and spoke. "Today's raid was just a testing of the waters, so to speak."

All the men around him, except for Berach, looked puzzled.

"I've had it in mind for a while now to help me self to some of the meat on those elven bones," Garbhán explained.

That got him his men's full attention; they straightened up and leaned in closer.

"There were good pickings to be had today, for sure," Garbhán continued, "but the real point of it all was to find out what sort of a fight they'd put up… so that when we go in search of even better pickings, we'll know what to expect." He opened his mouth to say more but a fierce howl rent the night air and put a hitch in his breath instead. Every eye turned towards the forest but nothing stirred out in the moonlit trees.

"Is all well out there?" Garbhán called to the sentries around the fringes of the stony ruins.

"Aye!" came back several muffled replies from the other side of the great menhirs and fallen walls.

The men around the fires settled down again and after one more look at the forest, Garbhán continued outlining his plans to his closest kinsmen. "We'll go reiving to the south-west next summer - take what weapons, women and food we can get. But what I really want is more fighting men. We need to replace the ones we lost today and I want at least another couple of dozen before we even think about trying our luck with any of the larger elven villages. 'Twas numbers that decided the outcome today but even so, those villagers were harder to put down than I thought they would be."

That last caused a few grumbling comments and the talk quickly turned to elven fighting techniques.

"They're quick on their feet, to be sure," said Ruadh.

"Aye," agreed Mathúin. "Ye can't take yer eyes off them, not even for an instant."

"The Druids say the _Aes Sídhe_ can disappear and travel many leagues distant in just the _blink_ of an eye," piped up Ardghal, a young man of some sixteen summers who was on only his second outing with the reivers.

"'Tis what we mean by 'not even for an instant'," said Berach dryly. "Remember that, me _buachaill_. Best _not_ blink around them or they'll confound you and cleave you in two before ye know it. And the Druids are right; the elven _tuatha_ can disappear and be far, far away in the twinkling of an eye."

Ardghal flushed. "Then why did they not do that today? Disappear, I mean - to save themselves," he asked.

"The young ones," said Garbhán, his voice flat. "They will not leave their young behind, not _even_ to save themselves."

"And they won't leave the sick or injured either," added Ruadh.

"Or run from a fight," chipped in Mathúin.

"I – I don't understand," said Ardghal hesitantly. "Why would they have to leave their young behind? Or the sick and injured?"

"Because magic is a craft that has to be learned and most of the young ones don't know enough to save their own hides," replied Garbhán. "They _can't_ travel great distances in the blink of an eye - at least not on their own they can't. And if _any_ elf is sick or badly wounded, then he'll lack the strength to summon his magic."

"The others can get them away safely but only if they're holding onto them," added Berach. "'Tis why we went for the children first today."

"Separate them from the others and none of the rest will be going anywhere without them," Garbhán finished for him.

Ardghal twisted round and stared at Treasach and the elven baby for some moments as he thought about what he'd just been told. He turned back to his kinsmen to ask how they knew what they did about the _Aes Sídhe_ but the talk had moved on and so after another calculating look at Treasach and the baby, he got up and went to sit next to the _Toísech's_ ungainly son. One of the other young men, sensing the opportunity for a bit of fun, joined him.

Their raised voices soon caught Garbhán's attention. He watched on disinterestedly as the tall, strong, well-formed youths started to wind up his weak, twisted fool of a son. Treasach was a source of great amusement to the younger members of the clan and a favourite game was to see who could be first to make the idiot piss himself. The youths – and young maidens too - could be quite ingenious in their efforts. Though Garbhán felt the humiliation keenly when they succeeded, as they invariably did, there was always the hope in the back of his mind that one day they would take things too far and his son would meet with a _fatally_ unfortunate accident. But though they dared much, the young of the clan never actually crossed that particular line – thanks to the Druids and their damn prophecy, no doubt. With one final dismissive glance at the trio, Garbhán turned back to his other men.

"Young Ardghal gave a good accounting of himself today," Berach was saying.

Garbhán eyed his cousin suspiciously. Though Berach's words seemed casual enough, the tanist had a way of putting the knife in without being obvious about it. Ardghal had indeed given a good account of himself. He had made his first kill - one of the elven villagers, a young man like himself - and when he'd caught hold of an elf maiden, he'd known exactly what to do with her. The contrast with Garbhán's idiot son couldn't have been more marked - or humiliating – and the _Toísech_ was fairly certain that that was the whole point of Berach's seemingly innocent comment. All he could do though was grunt in reply and change the subject as quickly as possible.

… …

Treasach looked down at the elven baby in his arms. He was glad she had stopped crying but he knew it was only a matter of time before she started again. She was hungry and cold, and he had no idea what to do. Though she'd been dressed warmly when he found her in the hut, it was night time now and they had been outside for hours. He held her close and tried to wrap his fur-lined cloak more tightly around her but it was only an old one of _Da's_ and it barely kept him warm.

At the thought of his father, he glanced up furtively. _Da_ was mad at him for taking the baby, amongst other things, but when he'd seen his clansmen about to set fire to the hut, he couldn't leave her in there to be burned alive. With her hair of gold and her pale, smooth skin, she reminded him of Órfhlaith, who had only been a baby when he'd met _her_. Órfhlaith had seen out two summers now and she was the best and only friend Treasach had. She didn't flinch from his twisted face and form, and she was happy to include him in her play. Her mother, Áine, was nice to him too, sometimes.

 _Da_ had gotten Áine and Órfhlaith the summer before last when the _Clan na_ _Dáirine_ had raided a small holding to the north. He had been struck by Áine's beauty and had taken her for his woman, after he'd killed her husband and brothers. In fact, _Da_ had been so struck by Áine that for a while there he'd hadn't exercised his right as _Toísech_ to lie with whatever woman in the clan caught his eye. And just because Áine had pleaded with him not to, he hadn't put Órfhlaith out in the snow when times had been hard last winter even though it had caused some grumblings amongst their kinsfolk on account of the other babies and young children they'd had to put out. That was the only time Treasach had ever seen _Dadaí_ change his mind about anything just because of someone's tears. He was glad _Da_ had changed his mind; he would never have known Órfhlaith for a friend otherwise.

 _And now here was someone else who might be a friend when she got a bit older_ , he thought as he watched the elven baby... so long as he got her back home and convinced Áine to wet nurse her. If he could do that, then she would be safe. But convincing Áine would be the hard part. She'd had a babe of her own only two moons ago – a son, and another friend for Treasach as well as a half-brother – and she was short on patience these days.

A shadow fell over Treasach, interrupting his thoughts and blocking out the heat of the fire. He looked up to see Ardghal and Cathair standing over him, and tensed as they nodded in greeting. His nervousness only increased when they motioned for him to make some room so they could sit down, one on either side of him. It rarely meant anything good whenever any of the young men or women of the clan sought him out.

"How are ye there, me _buachaill_?" asked Ardghal as he put his pikestaff down on the ground beside him. He gave the Chieftain's son a hearty slap on the back.

Treasach buckled under the force of the blow and shrivelled up inside. This time was obviously going to be no different. Not knowing what else to do, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the elven babe cradled in his arms. At the last moment, he remembered to mumble a reply. He may as well not have bothered.

"What's that ye say, Treasach? Eh?" demanded Ardghal, his voice rising with his excitement. "You really should learn to speak up!"

"Aye!" said Cathair; it was his turn to slap Treasach on the back, and his lips curled in a cruel smile when the boy was knocked off balance once more. "Come on, Treasach. Speak up!"

The baby started to grizzle and fuss again.

"Here, give it to me, Treasach," said Cathair, reaching for the infant. "I'll quieten it down for you."

Treasach wasn't in the least bit fooled; he was well acquainted with the mean look in Cathair's eyes. He hunched over the baby to protect her, and turned away from the young man's grasping hands… only to run smack into Ardghal's.

The elven baby had worked herself free of Treasach's cloak by now and was waving her arms around, her little fists clenched in distress. Ardghal grabbed hold of one fluttering limb and pulled hard; he was determined to get her off Treasach. There was a sickening snap as something in her shoulder gave. She screamed in pain, and suddenly, the world erupted in chaos.

As Treasach's voice joined the baby's in a loud cry of anguish, a furious baying tore through the air, as if from the throats of a thousand wolves. A black cloud wrapped around the moon and the flames of the fires collapsed in on themselves, plunging the ancient fortress into darkness for several moments before they flared back up again. Men leapt to their feet, seizing up their weapons. They looked around frantically as they called out to each other and tried to get their bearings. The snarling howls became deafening and in the next instant, a mass of dark, powerful forms rushed through the gaps in the crumbling stones, coming at them from all sides.

"Wolves!" cried out a man as he swung his spear at one of the leaping beasts.

"Nay! War dogs!" shouted another as he did the same. But his aim was off. The hound brought him down and tore out his throat.

No one had the time to wonder where the war dogs had come from… or what else was out there in the darkness; they were too busy fighting for their lives.

The sentries appeared from behind the standing stones and came running into the circle, weapons drawn.

 _How in the name of Taranis had they escaped the dogs_ , thought Garbhán as he fought off one of the snarling, slavering creatures. His question was quickly answered. The guards ran straight past the hounds and attacked the other men instead.

"Elves!" spat Garbhán in disgust as they dropped their glamour and showed their true faces. "There's still more of us than you though, for all your elven tricks." he muttered. He lifted his sword and rushed back into the fray.

… …

The sudden howling of the dogs gave Treasach a fright and he abruptly stopped his crying. He heard a strangled grunt to his left and turned around to see Cathair sitting there with a shocked look on his face. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and he was looking down at his pikestaff, the gore-covered end of which was protruding from his chest. There was a loud 'thwack' as something struck him hard on the back of the head, caving in his skull. Bits of bloodied bone and brain matter flew everywhere and he pitched forward, dead.

Treasach was terrified as he looked up but all he could make out was a dark blur of movement and a flash of silver. A harsh gasp came from his right, and he spun round towards the sound. What he saw made him tremble.

A tall, fierce-looking elven warrior had wrenched Ardghal to his feet and now held him by the throat with one hand. In his other pale hand, he held a gleaming sword of silver. There was blood and viscous material on the pommel; it was obviously the weapon that had just smashed in Cathair's skull.

Treasach was frozen to the spot with fear; all he could do was stare. The elven warrior stood straight and proud, the lean, muscular lines of his body speaking of strength and power. . His pointed ears were just visible under the war braids adorning his long, white-blond hair, and he had strange markings on his face. Treasach hadn't seen any such markings on the elves in the village that day but then again, he hadn't really looked closely at them because he hadn't been able to stomach what was going on around him. Although he could barely stomach what was going on now, he looked closely at this one; he couldn't help it.

The warrior was dressed in the colours of the night: black leather and brown suede – pants, shirt, and surcoat – and hard leather armour covering his broad chest and shoulders. Thick leather boots shielded his knees and shins, and black leather vambraces protected his forearms. His pale skin and hair stood out starkly against his dark clothes, as did his flame-gold eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. Treasach caught sight of another flash of colour - a glint of gold on the dark sash tied around the elf's waist – and he looked again. His heart sank as he recognised the leafy pattern of Aiglin, The Father Tree… the crest of the Royal House of Airgetlám, the House of the Elf King of Bethmoora. So much for 'Eld Balor' not finding out about their raid on the village until they were safely away.

Treasach's eyes were drawn unwillingly to his clansman. Ardghal was clawing desperately at his captor's hand but to no avail. The elven warrior shook him ferociously and put an end to his attempt to break free. He tried to speak next but with his windpipe being crushed, it was impossible to manage anything more than a rasping croak.

"What's that you say, _buachaill_?" The elf's eyes gleamed with a cold, hard light and his lip curled in a vicious sneer.

Ardghal made another strangled sound.

The elven warrior tilted his head and examined him for a moment, as if he were some sort of loathsome bug.

Treasach shivered with fear and squirmed uncomfortably; the pressure on his bladder was starting to mount. If the deadly look on the elf's face was anything to go by, this wasn't going to turn out well for anyone. But then the elven warrior surprised him; he dropped Ardghal and started to turn away.

Treasach thought for a split second that his clansman was going to be spared but in the next instant the elf spun back round, moving so quickly that Treasach didn't really see what followed. There was a flash of silver and in less time than it took to blink, Ardghal's head was lying at his feet. Unseeing eyes bulged with an awful look of frozen horror. The elf took a quick step back and the rest of the corpse slumped to the ground, landing with a dull thud.

"You really should learn to speak up," said the warrior with grim satisfaction. And then he turned his head and fixed his hard, flame-gold gaze on Treasach… and the distressed elven baby still cradled in the terrified boy's arms.

 

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "rough one"

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "warlike" or "fighter".

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Dadaí: (Irish Gaelic) Daddy (pronounced DAH-dee), "da" for short.

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of _Mathghamhain_ , a name meaning "bear".

Ruadh: (Irish Gaelic) nickname meaning "red" (as in red hair).

Clan na Dáirine: (Irish Gaelic) Dáirine Clan. The Dáirine were the proto-historical rulers of Munster prior to the 7th century AD and may have been an especially violent tribe based on the cognate meaning of their name ( _Dari (o)_ \- tumult, rage). Their ancestors are known as the Clanna Dedad in the Ulster Cycle, one of the four great cycles of Irish mythology.

Berach: (Irish Gaelic) name derived from the word _biorach_ meaning "sharp".

Tanist: the next heir to a chieftaincy, elected by family heads in full assembly at the same time as the king or chieftain is elected. Eligibility for these roles was based on patrilineal relationships, meaning that the inheritance of the title passed through the male line. The tanist would become chieftain immediately if the current one died or became disqualified. See 'tanistry' – a custom in Ireland and Scotland whereby the kings or chiefs of clans were chosen, as described above. Once elected, the chieftain held office for life so long as he was in possession of all his faculties and without any major blemish of body or mind. This meant that there was more chance of the most able of men being chosen to lead their clans though it could cause strife within families and between clans when ambitions came into play. (Compare to the English system of primogeniture whereby the eldest son inherits regardless of ability.)

Taranis: the old Celtic God of thunder, worshiped principally in Gaul, Gallaecia, Britain and Ireland. Likely related to Tuireann, a figure from the Irish Mythological cycle. Taranis is sometimes identified incorrectly as one of a sacred triad along with Esus (God of vegetation/forests) and Teuttades (God of warriors/tribal protector).

Bean-sídhe: (Irish Gaelic) In Irish mythology, a female spirit - often considered an omen of death and a messenger from the Otherworld.

Taibhse (THIGHV-shah): (Irish Gaelic) ghost.

Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish Gaelic) the term for a magical race in Irish mythology - can be likened to elves.

Imbolc (i-molk): one of the four Gaelic festivals of the seasons, this one marks the beginning of spring. It is usually held 1st February, roughly half-way between the winter solstice and spring equinox. Originates from the Old Irish _i mbolg,_ meaning "in the belly" (referring to the pregnancy of ewes.) The date is thought to have had significance in Ireland since Neolithic times (4000 – 2500 BC). For example, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages (built 3000 – 2500 BC) on the Hill of Tara is aligned with the rising sun on this date.

Reivers: (Scottish) raiders, robbers.

Arigneach: (Irish Gaelic) Former name for Arigna, a village in County Roscommon, Ireland.

Lir: (Irish Gaelic) A sea god in Irish mythology. 'The Seas of Lir' is my name for the Irish and Celtic Seas.

Chief of the Name (or 'Captain of his Countrie' in older English usage): (Anglicised Gaelic term) the recognised head of a family or clan.

Ardghal (AHR-dahl): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "high valour".

Buachaill (or bhuachaill): (Irish Gaelic) boy (pronounced VOOuh-chul).

Tuath (plural _tuatha_ ): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".

Órfhlaith (OR-la): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "golden princess".

Áine: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "radiance".

Toísech's right to sleep with any woman in the clan: no historical basis whatsoever for this one, though it may well be true. Have loosely based my usage on the idea of _droit du seigneur_ (French - "right of the lord"), a term synonymous with _jus primae noctis_ or "right of the first night". Refers to a medieval/feudal European context and subsequent widespread popular belief about the alleged legal rights allowing a lord to spend a night and have sexual relations with a subordinate woman (for example, taking the virginity of his serfs' maiden daughters.) The idea gained currency after Voltaire accepted it as authentic in his _Dictionnaire philosophique_ (1764).

For an anthropological perspective/discussion of infant exposure (Órfhlaith being put out in the snow), see Blaffer Hrdy, Sarah, _Mother Nature: A History of Mothers, Infants, and Natural Selection_ , Pantheon Books, New York (1999).

Cathair (KA-heer): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "battle man".

 

* * *

 

 **A/N:** although many of the terms and practices used above are old ones, they are still likely to be anachronistic with respect to the setting of this story (c.1700 BC.) There are no historical records from late Bronze Age/early Iron Age Ireland – what _is_ known comes from archaeological and genetic evidence – so I've taken the liberty of using the terms and practices above in order to help create what is hopefully at least a plausible account of life in those times. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Though his expression gave nothing away, Nuada was at a loss as to what to do with the broken, disfigured boy in front of him. Balor's edict was simple and to the point; _any_ human found to have had _any_ part in the death of an elf was to be executed, swiftly and mercifully, and the boy was undoubtedly part of the raiding party which had slain all but two of a whole elven village. _Three_ , Nuada amended silently as he looked at the crying baby in the boy's arms; they needed to get her to a Healer.

But the boy – Treasach - had saved her life and was doing what he could to care for her. Nuada had learned that much, and more, in the short time he'd been in the humans' camp, glamoured and unseen by their murderous, thieving eyes. And too, there was something repugnant about killing someone so obviously at a disadvantage and without any hope of ever defending himself. And yet the king's orders were clear. Death.

Nuada's thoughts tumbled over one another like stones caught in a raging torrent but before they could find a place to settle, an angry roar from a human throat drew him into the fight again. Spinning round, he parried a blow from a thrusting spear and lunged forward, on the attack. There was no doubt in his mind about what to do with _this_ human.

… …

Treasach watched the elven warrior, transfixed. If his own limbs weren't broken and bent, if he wasn't a fool. If he was tall and straight, and could move properly, speak properly. If _Da_ hadn't taken him up on that horse all those years ago, mean drunk on grog and with _Ma_ crying 'no'… then he would want to be like the elf, Treasach decided. Move like him, fight like him.

The warrior was all explosive power and fury as he drove his opponent back against one of the huge, forbidding menhirs that circled the ancient fort. Slipping past the man's guard, he ran him through with his sword but as he wrenched the weapon free of the dying body, four more reivers attacked. He whirled round to meet them and now he was the one with his back against the wall. He had his work cut out for him too, fending off their blows and not tripping over the corpse at his feet, and he was given no chance to regain the offensive.

Treasach wondered how long the Elf King's champion could hold _Da's_ men at bay before one of them got past his flashing blade of silver and killed him. Though he knew it was disloyal to his kinsmen, he hoped with all his heart that the warrior would win but then he remembered those fierce, flame-gold eyes which only moments before had burnt a hole right through him, and he faltered in his wish.

A hurtling shadow and low, rumbling snarl broke in on Treasach's agitated thoughts. His eyes focused on an elven war dog as it barrelled into one of his clansmen, knocking the reiver off his feet. Vicious snapping jaws tore into the fallen man who screamed and writhed on the ground. His hands flailed in a desperate attempt to push the hound off, and then fell lifeless at his sides.

The other men, startled by the sudden attack, glanced round to see what was happening; their momentary lapse was all that the elven warrior needed to retake the advantage. He lunged forward with a rapid slew of deadly, well-aimed slashes, his sword flashing to the left and to the right. Another of the reivers fell under the onslaught; his life's blood spurted from a fatal wound which had sliced through to the bone, severing the artery in his thigh. With barely a pause in his attack, the elf bent low and snatched up the man's blade. He fought with two weapons now as his remaining opponents redoubled their efforts to kill both him and his war dog.

Though he was mesmerised by the warrior's fluid grace and skill, Treasach realised he and the elven baby were dangerously close to the fighting. Holding her awkwardly, he shuffled back against one of the towering, moss-covered stones to get as far out of the way as possible. He had just curled in on himself, shielding the baby with his body, when something warm and wet pressed through his long, dark hair and into the side of his face. He jumped with fright, letting out a loud cry, and the baby wailed in distress as her injured shoulder was jolted. Treasach turned and saw another elven war dog standing right beside him, it's maw only inches from his head. The dog bared its fangs and growled as the baby cried, and Treasach was certain he was about to be mauled to death just as his clansman had been a moment ago. The sudden pressure on his bladder told him his body was about to let him down again too. He didn't have time to wonder why it hadn't failed him long before now. With the dog's breath hot on his cheek, its snarl rumbling in his ear, and the musky smell of its fur in his nostrils, he tensed up and closed his eyes.

But the painful, flesh-tearing bite never came. A rich-timbred voice – the elf's, Treasach realised - barked out an order and the hound whined instead, as if disappointed. There was a rush of movement, and the cold night air stung Treasach's cheek once more. He opened his eyes to see the dog loping away. Looking up, he got another fright; the elven warrior was standing over him, bloodied swords in hand, his chest heaving as his breath came in harsh pants. The ground behind the elf was littered with _five_ bodies now.

"Stay there!" he rasped. He didn't wait for a reply. Moon-white hair flew in a silvery arc as he spun round and raced into the middle of the ruins where the fighting was fiercest.

Treasach breathed a sigh of relief as the two war dogs followed close on their master's heels. It was only a temporary respite, he knew, but for the moment he was more than happy to do as he was told. He shut his eyes and hunched over the baby again. However, although he could block out the sight of the battle, he couldn't block out the sounds. The yells and cries of men and elves, the snapping and snarling of the war dogs, the sharp, metallic ring of silver on bronze, the whinnying of the horses, and the bleats and grunts of the frightened livestock all assaulted his ears as did the frantic cries of the baby. An acrid smell - of blood and death - soon filled the air too, and Treasach could taste it in his mouth along with his own bitter fear as the fighting raged on around him.

After a while, the terrible noises abated and he dared to open his eyes once more. He had to force himself to keep them open. Though the flickering flames of the fires had burned low, leaving much of the stony ruins shrouded in eerie, moonlit shadows, there was still enough light by which to see the torn, bloodied bodies of his clansmen strewn about the ground. Most were dead but in amongst the corpses there were signs of movement, and the sounds which now reached Treasach's ears were those of the wounded and dying. Pain-racked moans mingled with the low, menacing growls of the elven war dogs as they prowled restlessly through the human carcasses, sniffing here and there and occasionally stopping to let loose a long, mournful howl whenever they discovered the body of a dead pack mate. Each time, from deep in the forest, came the answering howl of a wolf. The winter-starved predators seemed to sympathise with the war dogs… or perhaps they just sensed the chance of a meal.

Treasach tore his gaze away from the grisly sights of the dead – and almost-dead - and sought out the living, the ones still standing. There was not a single human amongst them, he realised. All ten were elves. But they had not escaped lightly either. A few were only on their feet because their comrades were holding them up, and one elf had lost the greater part of an arm. Two others were with him, and Treasach could see a strange fire emanating from the hands of the older one as his long, pale fingers moved over torn skin and shattered bone, severed sinews and sliced veins.

How many elves had lost their lives, Treasach wondered. He quickly scanned the ruins for 'his' one, and spied him standing near the middle of the circle, a tall, lone figure bathed in a silver shaft of moonlight, surveying the carnage. Without warning, the elf swung his head round and pinned Treasach with his hard, auriferous gaze once more. Nascent relief shattered like brittle ice; the respite was over.

… …

As he stared at the trembling youth, Nuada realised he had made his decision. He could not stomach the thought of killing the crippled boy. His father had obviously not envisaged a situation like this when he'd laid down his edict and would surely understand why his orders had not been followed in respect of this one small detail. Everything else had been done in accordance with the Elf King's wishes. _Almost_ everything else, Nuada amended as he recalled the dead humans in the razed elven village; he had ordered their corpses to be left for the wolves, not buried as was the custom with their kind. In all other respects though, _Rí_ Balor's decrees had been followed to the letter.

The elven dead had been attended to and the sacred rituals observed. Provisions had been made for _Máistreás_ Sadhbh and her brother, Faolán - the elven woman being determined to stay in the village until she discovered the fate of her baby - and three warriors had remained behind to watch over them. Only then had the rest of the Horse Guards set out after their quarry.

The _madraí cogadh_ had quickly picked up the scent of the human raiders and the company had ridden hard and fast through the night, following the trail by the light of the Quiet Moon. The thundering hooves of the elven war horses had eaten up the miles as they raced on under a star-studded cloak of darkness, past stream and brook, though forest and glade, until the bare-limbed, frost-encrusted trees had given way to frozen fields and this low rise, on whose brow sat the moss-covered crown of an ancient fortress. It was to this place that the elven warriors had finally tracked their quarry. They had soon discovered too that they weren't the only ones hunting this night. Not long after they'd arrived, there had come from further back in the forest the bone-chilling howl of a wolf, and then the excited snarls and yaps of others. The war dogs had growled softly in reply, hackles rising, ready to attack, but the wolves stayed well back… for the time being.

The elves had watched the fortress from the cover of the trees, getting the lie of the land and gauging the strength of the enemy. The old ruins were the perfect place to stop for a night, being well-placed with a clear view of the surrounding countryside, and with the dark light of silver moon casting a soft, luminous glow over the slumbering meadows, a stealthy approach was impossible - for anyone who didn't have magic running through his veins.

The humans had also made sure their encampment was well-guarded. Eight sentries had been posted around the perimeter of the abandoned fortress, each one within line of sight of the man on either side of him. It had been immediately apparent too that the elven _Cosantóirí_ were greatly outnumbered but they had the war dogs, the magic of their people, and the element of surprise to help balance the scales, and they had planned their attack accordingly.

Timing was everything and they couldn't afford to alert the enemy to their presence until they'd had the chance to even the odds a little. Though each of the warriors could travel along the paths of magic and light in little more than the space of a thought and disguise himself as he chose, Uileog was the only one of the company who had the skill and experience to work such acts of magic seamlessly, one after the other, without being seen by human eyes. _In_ experience have would cost them precious seconds, and Nuada was not prepared to risk losing the advantage of surprise because of it. That being the case, he had decided that eight of the company would use the glamour of invisibility and cross the open ground on foot instead, sticking to the wide set of tracks left several hours beforehand by the humans' horses and the stolen livestock. It would be likewise fatal to their plans if some sharp-eyed sentry spied a new set of prints in the light dusting of snow covering the fields.

Once on the crest of the hill, the warriors would circle around behind the watchmen and kill them, swiftly and silently, before glamouring themselves again, this time as the slain sentries. Fortune favoured the elves in this respect; the large standing stones forming the outer ring of the ancient enclosure obscured the guards from the rest of their party and so the other humans would have no idea of what was happening.

To help matters further, Cearul, one of the two warriors who were to stay in the forest with the war dogs and horses, was a naturally talented weather-smith. Though not yet fully adept at his craft, he could still call on the clouds to dull the light of the moon and on the wind to fill the silence of the night whilst the main body of the company dealt with the sentries. After that had been done, he and the other remaining elf would bring up the dog pack and then the _Cosantóirí_ would launch the attack proper.

The horses would not be used this time; the battleground would be too confined for that. Instead, they would wait in the trees. The great war stallions knew how to use their powerful jaws and deadly hooves to good effect and were more than able to defend themselves against any lurking predator which might mistake them for an easy target.

Dark waves of cloud had rolled in at Cearul's bidding, and the elves had been on the point of executing their plan when the distressed cry of a baby rang out in the cold night air, freezing them in their tracks. Nuada had sent Uileog to find out what on earth an infant was doing in a camp full of reivers. Some adjustment to their plans would be required to make sure it came to no harm, and they needed to know what the exact situation was. Everyone assumed it was a human child and Nuada's first thought had been to leave it at a human village somewhere along the way once the raiders had been defeated and justice served.

Using the enchanted byways of nature, Uileog had travelled to the fortress in the blink of an eye and then covered himself with the glamour of invisibility so he could move amongst the humans unseen. When he returned a few minutes later, he had brought back the disturbing news that the infant was one of their own. There wasn't a single elf in the company who hadn't shuddered at the thought of an elven baby in the hands of these particular humans… not after what they had seen in the destroyed elven village that day.

On hearing Uileog's report, Nuada had quickly determined that only one change would be needed in their plans. Once he had killed his sentry, he would glamour himself with invisibility again and take up position near the baby so he could protect her if any of the humans threatened her before the rest of the company was ready to strike. He would also ensure she was not harmed in the attack itself.

And so their plan had proceeded, and Nuada had discovered that although the baby's life was in grave danger, one of the raiders - a crippled, misshapen youth called Treasach - seemed to be doing what he could to look after her. That had surprised the elven prince on several counts. Humans usually killed or abandoned those of their kind who might be a burden on the rest, and Nuada wondered why this one had been allowed to live when he was so obviously an object of loathing and ridicule to his people, and even to his own father. Moreover, the boy had risked added abuse from his clansmen by caring for the elven baby, and from what Nuada had learned of the other humans in the short time he'd spent in their camp, it was not so much a risk as a certainty.

There was not a shred of mercy in any of them, not even for one of their own. And as for _honour_ … When they'd attacked the elven village, they had deliberately separated the children from the adults and though the villagers had fought back, they hadn't stood a chance of winning; there had been too many humans for that, and the villagers were not trained warriors. And afterwards, when the _Aes Sídhe_ men had all been killed, the women and children had been nothing more than playthings to the human reivers, objects on which to ride out their lust and targets for weapons practice. And the humans hadn't planned on stopping at one village either; they had cast their avaricious, murdering eyes on even bigger prizes. More rape, more slaughter, more elven misery…

It was the misery and distress of the elven baby which had acted as the trigger for the warriors' attack. The moment the two young reivers had started towards the crying infant and her self-appointed champion, Nuada had known they were up to no good. He'd moved in swiftly when the first one tried to take her off Treasach but then the boy had turned away and the other one had grabbed her arm so quickly, Nuada had had no chance to prevent her from being harmed. As she screamed in pain, he had reacted instinctively, killing one of her tormentors with the man's own spear and decapitating the other. The rest of the _Cosantóirí_ had been in position along with the _madraí cogadh_ and as the baby wailed her anguish to the star-filled heavens, they had rushed in, taking the humans completely by surprise. The fighting had been hard and fierce but the elven company had won through in the end.

And now, in the aftermath of the battle, as he stared at the cowering youth and crying baby, Nuada cursed his own lack of foresight in not anticipating the second reiver's attempt to snatch hold of her. Perhaps if he had, she might not have been injured… He had to remind himself that at least she was no longer in danger and the elven healers could see to her arm. It briefly crossed his mind that she might be _Máistreás_ Sadhbh's child. If that was the case and he could reunite the elven woman with her baby, then it would surely count as some sort of victory in this dark, terrible day. He felt no sense of triumph otherwise, even though they had defeated the human raiders.

At the thought of the fighting, Nuada's gaze flickered over his own warriors. Several of them needed the services of the healers too. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one had been killed. A small frown creased his brow as his eyes fell on Tadhg; the young elf was the most severely injured, having lost the greater part of his sword arm. He would live though and learn to wield a weapon again, much as _Rí_ Balor had all those many centuries ago: with a limb forged from elven silver and woven through with goblin magic.

The human boy would live too but as to what to do with him… Nuada's frown deepened for an instant and then eased as expediency won out; he would leave that decision for later. For now, there were the wounded to tend to… starting with the baby elven girl. His gaze swung back to the crying infant and her protector, and he started to walk towards them.

He had barely taken two steps when a tall, dark-clad figure leapt out from behind the large stone against which they were leaning and seized Treasach by the hair of his head. The boy yelped in pained surprise as he was yanked to his feet and the baby let out a piercing cry of distress at the rough, jolting movement. Nuada swiftly drew his sword. He recognised the shadowy figure immediately; it was the raiders' chieftain… Treasach's father. The elven prince swore under his breath as he hefted his blade.

"I'd be putting that away if I were you, _elf_ ," spat Garbhán, quickly bringing the point of his own weapon – a dagger - up to the baby's chest. His other arm was wrapped tightly around Treasach's neck in a chokehold and there was nothing the boy could do except gasp for breath as he held onto the elven child.

"But you are _not_ me, _human_ ," snarled Nuada. "Let them go and I promise you a quick death." The faintest whisper of movement and a low, threatening growl carried to his ears and he knew the rest of his warriors and the remaining war dogs were now ranged behind him.

"It seems to _me_ you're in no position to promise _anything_ , ye pasty-faced _sióg_ ," returned the _Toísech_ with a hard smile. " _Or_ make any demands."

"You are outnumbered, you piece of filth. The _best_ you can hope for is a quick death. Now, _let them go,_ " Nuada repeated, his voice flint-hard.

A new voice took him by surprise.

"He's not as outnumbered as ye might think." Two more reivers stepped out from behind the towering stone and took up position, one on either side of their chieftain, weapons drawn and at the ready.

Nuada recognised one of them as the human who had been feted for his skill with the pikestaff. The other, if he was not mistaken, was also part of the _Toísech's_ inner circle. The man wavered unsteadily on his feet and Nuada's sharp eyes soon saw why. Underneath the human's fur-lined cloak, at waist-height on his tunic, was a large patch of torn material - darker than the rest - which seemed to cling to his skin. It was soaked through with blood, Nuada realised. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer as he replied. "Nevertheless, he _is_ still outnumbered and the chances of _any_ of you dying a merciful death are slipping away more rapidly than that one's life." He nodded in the direction of the wounded man and started forward.

"Ye'll not be taking any more human lives, ye murdering elf!" snapped Garbhán, the irony of his words escaping him entirely. He jabbed the baby with his dagger and she screamed in pain once more as the blade pierced her swaddling clothes and dug into the flesh on her tiny chest.

Treasach gave a half-strangled moan of anguish as golden blood welled up and spread out, staining her soft silken gown. She thrashed about in his arms, kicking her little feet and flailing her tightly curled fists. He wanted desperately to do something, anything, to get her away from his father but he knew better than to try and struggle; it would only make _Da_ worse.

As for Nuada, his stomach dropped at the _Toísech's_ vicious assault on the baby and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Aye. That's right, ye piece of elven shite," gloated Garbhán. The look of sick horror on the _Aes Sídhe_ warrior's hard, chiselled features was immensely gratifying. "Like I said, you're in no position to be layin' down terms of _any_ kind. Now, saddle two horses for us and set the rest loose."

The hesitation was written clear on Nuada's face.

"Now!" ordered Garbhán forcefully. "Or I'll carve meself a piece of elf meat!" He brought his dagger to the baby's cheek and pressed it into her skin. She was too little to know to stay still and wriggled madly as the tip pricked her. The result was a nasty cut down the length of her soft, round cheek, which only increased her misery.

Nuada's hesitation vanished; he spoke over his shoulder to the warriors behind him. "Do as he says." His flame-gold eyes cut back to the human chieftain; they blazed with fierce, deadly hatred.

"Oh, and I've changed me mind," added Garbhán. "I'll have a promise off you after all: that ye'll not follow us if I return the babe to you." He smirked in triumph.

The elven prince's features twisted with loathing; it stuck in his craw to make such a concession to the filthy, murderous creature in front of him but he gave a tight nod of assent nevertheless.

Meanwhile, the wounded man beside the _Toísech_ struggled to speak. "Three," he finally gasped. "Three horses, Garbhán."

"What?" Garbhán's brow furrowed and he looked round at his kinsman.

"Y - you said 'two horses'. Surely ye meant 'three'." The man's breathing was shallow and laboured.

"Ah!" There was a slight pause as Garbhán trained his eyes on Nuada once more. "About that, Berach," he said. "You'll only slow us down."

"For pity's sake, cousin," began the tanist desperately.

The chieftain nodded to the man on the other side of him – Mathúin – and moved swiftly out of the way, pulling Treasach and the elven baby with him.

It was one of those rare occasions on which Mathúin got the message without needing further instruction. He lunged past Garbhán and ran Berach through with his spear then wrenched the bloodied weapon from his clansman's body and stepped back, on guard against the elves once more. It was all over in an instant.

"That's as much as I can do for ye, cousin," said Garbhán as Berach's eyes glazed over on a look of stunned disbelief. If the _Toísech_ felt any remorse or sorrow, he didn't show it.

The tanist clasped his hands to the gaping hole in his chest and fell to the ground dead.

Nuada had started forward again, thinking to somehow take advantage of the humans' distraction, but Garbhán was in no ways distracted. He flipped his dagger in his hand and held it poised over the sobbing baby's stomach, ready to drive it home. His lips curled in an insolent smile as he stared at the elven warrior. He had the advantage and he knew it, and once more Nuada was forced to stand down.

One of the younger warriors, Lorcan, had returned with two of the humans' horses by now. Garbhán looked past him to make sure the other steeds had been cut loose as he'd instructed. Even though he had the elven leader's promise not to follow, he didn't want to leave temptation in their way. And just to be on the safe side - because after all, they still had their elven magic - he had it in mind to give the _Aes Sídhe_ warriors something else to think about whilst he and Mathúin made good their escape.

"You have your horses and my word," said Nuada harshly. "Now give me the baby."

"All in good time, elf," replied Garbhán. He turned his attention to Lorcan. "You there! Bring those horses over here." He waved his dagger, indicating a spot several yards in front of him.

The young warrior did as he was bid and then took his place again, behind Nuada with the rest of his comrades.

Garbhán dragged Treasach and the elven baby over to the waiting horses and spoke to Mathúin. "Watch my back." He then released his son and swiftly mounted one of the horses.

Treasach, thinking he was now free to return the baby to her elven kinsfolk, took a shuffling step towards Nuada but Garbhán reached down and grabbed him by the hair again, hauling him to a sudden halt. The chieftain leaned forward in the saddle, over Treasach's shoulders, and snatched the crying baby out of the boy's arms, having no care for the hurt he caused her. Then he raised his leg and planted the flat of his foot squarely between his son's shoulder blades, and gave a violent shove.

Like Treasach, Nuada had also assumed he was about to get the baby back. He too had taken a step forward, and had his arms outstretched to take her. Instead, he caught Treasach as the boy stumbled towards him, and for a moment he could only stand there holding up his dead weight.

Mathúin was on his horse now, and he and the _Toísech_ wheeled their steeds round and made to ride out of the fortress. The elven baby was utterly beside herself with pain and fear, crying wretchedly and thrashing about in Garbhán's arms. He dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and as it shot forward, he lifted her high. "Here! Have your filthy lump of elven shite back," he shouted, and he dashed her against one of the large menhirs as he galloped out of the ancient fortress.

There was a sickening crunch; the wee girl's cries abruptly ceased. The bottom dropped out of the world for Nuada and for every other elf present, and for Treasach too; the baby elf was dead, her tiny, broken body turned to lifeless stone before she had even hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "warlike" or "fighter".

Femoral artery: is the artery in the thigh which, if severed, can cause death by rapid blood loss.

Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) Mistress.

Sadhbh(SAH-eev): (Irish Gaelic) name likely meaning 'sweet' or 'goodness'.

Faolán(FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.

Quiet Moon: Celtic name for the full moon in January.

Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).

Uileog de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar: (Irish Gaelic) Uileog (IH-lig) – name meaning 'resolute protector'; de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar – phrase meaning 'of wise counsel'.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish Gaelic) the term for a magical race in Irish mythology - can be likened to elves.

Tadhg (TAYG): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'poet' or 'philosopher'.

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "rough one".

Sióg (she-o): (Irish Gaelic) fairy.

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Berach: (Irish Gaelic) name derived from the word _biorach_ meaning "sharp".

Tanist: the next heir to a chieftaincy, elected by family heads in full assembly at the same time as the king or chieftain is elected. See Chapter 2 for more notes.

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of _Mathghamhain_ , a name meaning "bear".

Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.


	4. Chapter 4

For an instant, an eternity - a time out of time – everything stopped. Still. Flat. No colour, no meaning... Nature bled dry. Nuada's body was hardly his own, his mind not at all. What he'd just witnessed, the evidence of his own eyes… It was monstrously impossible and yet it had happened. Numbing disbelief consumed him. The cold, stone remains of the elven baby lay at the base of the towering menhir and he willed her to move, to cry, to do anything other than lie there. But she didn't move and she didn't cry, and all she could do was lie there, lifeless.

He staggered then, the burden of the human boy in his arms suddenly more than he could bear. Another step and he steadied himself, transferring Treasach's weight back onto the boy's own feet as he did so. If only it were so easy to step back through time: the space of a heartbeat, a handful at most… all the time it took to kill a living, breathing child.

It was Treasach's moan of anguish that shattered the frozen moment. The awful, stupefying feeling morphed into something different altogether and time started moving once more. Nuada swiftly set the boy to one side. He turned his face – a face hard with hate and inexorable purpose – towards the cold, white fields… and the two horsemen who had already covered nearly half the distance to the forest. In the twinkling of an eye he was gone, leaving the crippled boy and the rest of the elven warriors standing there staring at the empty space where he had just been. A heartbeat later he stood amongst the trees, sword drawn and the promise of death in his eyes as he watched the humans approach.

… …

As he and Mathúin galloped across the winter fields, Garbhán knew he'd had a lucky escape. The _Aes Sídhe_ warriors were an entirely different kettle of fish to the elven villagers they had fought earlier in the day, and the Gods had surely been watching over him tonight - though they needn't expect any thanks for it, not after they had neglected to similarly favour the rest of his men. Years of hard work destroyed in just one night! _Less_ than one night! It would take a long time to build up such numbers again. He would have to somehow recover from the disaster - and strike back. The dirty, creeping _sióga_ had cost the _Clan na_ _Dáirine_ dearly this night and thoughts of vengeance were already fermenting in the _Toísech's_ mind. It was a shame the elves turned to stone when they died; the fleshly head of an elven warrior would have made a fine trophy to hang around the neck of his horse, or nail to his dwelling-house in the clan's stronghold. A scowl marred his face as he glanced down at the bare neck of the horse he was riding now. He already _had_ a fine string of trophies but it was back up on the rise, along with everything else he had been forced to leave behind. Another loss to lay at the feet of the elves, though they were welcome to his twisted fool of a son; that was the one thing he was not sorry to leave behind.

His lips curled in a sneer as it occurred to him that for once in his life the boy had done something right. Who could have guessed that the puling elven brat would come in handy after all? There had come a time in the fight when Garbhán had realised they were not going to win against the elven warriors. He'd swiftly searched round for some means by which to save his own skin and his eyes had skimmed past Treasach. Unsurprisingly, the idiot was cowering beneath one of the large standing stones and Garbhán had no doubt he was also sitting in a puddle of his own piss. _That_ was when the _Toísech_ remembered the elven baby. He had looked more closely at his son then and sure enough, there it was: shielded behind the fool's body, crying and fussing in his bent, misshapen arms. It was as good a guarantee of safe passage as Garbhán had ever seen.

He'd hung back after that, stealthily moving closer to the edge of the enclosure, and finally, after slicing open the belly of a snapping, snarling war dog intent on ruining his plans, he had slipped behind the stones and made his way round to the one against which his idiot son and the elven whelp were sheltering. On seeing what his chieftain was up to, Mathúin had quickly followed. Along the way they'd found Berach who was leaning against another of the towering menhirs, badly wounded and gasping for breath. He was still standing though, and so had been useful - up to a point.

And things had gone exactly as Garbhán planned. The elves had quickly stood down once he'd gotten his hands on the whining brat. Even their hard-faced leader had been forced to back off. _Give me the baby_ , he had said. Well, he'd gotten the whey-faced little _sióg_ alright and would no doubt be bitterly regretting that he'd ever tried to best Garbhán of the _Clan na_ _Dáirine_. The _Toísech_ felt a surge of satisfaction at the thought. He spurred his mount on; they were almost at the trees now.

… …

Nuada's eyes narrowed and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as the riders drew near. The time to act had arrived. He stepped out from behind a bare-limbed branch - a dark-clad figure in the moonlit landscape - and whispered an ancient word of summoning. It carried on the air, rippling through the night, and the galloping horses harkened to the sound. For Nuada had an affinity with the birds and beasts of the forests and fields and with those who gave service to both elf and man, and they were willing to heed his call. Leaning back on their hindquarters, the horses dug their rear hooves into the ground and came to a sliding stop. The humans were taken completely unawares; one was catapulted off his mount whilst the other, the Chieftain, smacked violently into the crest of his horse's neck. Dazed by the blow, he struggled to regain his seat. Nuada whispered another word and the steed reared up, throwing the _Toísech_ to the ground. The horses then wheeled around and galloped back towards the ruins on the hill. Savage satisfaction flared in the elven prince's breast as he ran swiftly to the fallen men.

On reaching them, a quick glance at the first one told him the human was out cold – either that or dead - and would give him no trouble. The second one, the one he wanted alive, was trying to stand. Nuada let the man flounder for a moment longer then stepped in front of him.

Garbhán looked up - and got a nasty surprise. His gaze collided with the elven warrior's. He read his own death in those cold, merciless eyes and a sickening wave of panic swept through him. But instinct took over, incinerating his fear in a blaze of fury. He knew he had only one chance to get out of this alive. He didn't bother going for his sword; he'd be dead before the blade cleared the scabbard. Instead, he coiled his muscles and fell onto one hand, feigning weakness. His other hand went straight for the dagger in his boot. Frenzied rage lent him power and agility, and he sprang forward with a mighty roar, slashing wildly at his elven nemesis.

Nuada was ready for him though. Bracing his legs, he twisted his torso back and away from the thrusting knife. The Chieftain somehow managed to land a blow all the same but so intent was Nuada on his purpose, he barely flinched as the sharp bronze blade cut deep into the muscle of his thigh. His hand had already formed a fist around the hilt of his sword and he channelled every ounce of strength he possessed through bicep, forearm and fist as he smashed the solid, silver pommel into Garbhán's jaw, shattering bone and laying the man out cold on the hard, winter ground. He swiftly sheathed his sword and bent down between the two unmoving humans. Seizing the _Toísech's_ arm with one hand and the second man's with the other, he straightened up and lifted his eyes to the ancient fortress on the rise. In less time than it took to blink, he was back there with the humans in tow.

Nuada's appearance caused a murmur of surprise amongst the rest of the _Cosantóirí_ but there was no opportunity to comment. He immediately snapped out a series of orders. "Áed! Fearghal! Take those three back to Bethmoora and get them to the healers." He nodded at Tadhg and two others who had been badly wounded.

The warriors moved quickly to do their _captaen's_ bidding. They didn't need to be told that they were to use the hidden paths of their people - the paths of magic - to return to Bethmoora. They were gone in an instant, taking their injured companions with them.

"Cearul. Lorcan," continued Nuada. "Rekindle the fires then help Uileog and Meallán gather the bodies of the dead war dogs and burn them. They gave valiant service tonight… and they gave their lives. They should be honoured accordingly."

Cearul and Lorcan acknowledged the prince's orders and headed towards the large pile of branches which the humans had collected earlier. Uileog and Meallán started moving away too.

"And remember," Nuada called out, his voice flint-hard.

All four halted in their tracks.

"Kill any human who hasn't yet died from his wounds. You can leave their filthy carcasses where they lie." As Nuada spoke, his eyes fell on Treasach: a miserable, sobbing lump, hunched over the cold, stone corpse of the elven baby. "Except for that one," he added, nodding at the human boy. "He is under my protection."

That last was yet another surprise. The remaining elves all wore questioning frowns on their faces as they looked at their _captaen_ and prince.

Nuada paid them no heed. He glanced down at the two unconscious reivers, both still held firmly in his grasp, and sneered. "As are these ones… for the moment." He turned away from the group, effectively dismissing them, and scanned the grounds of the ancient fortress, looking for something.

The other warriors didn't quite know what to make of the prince's last comment but they had their orders and he obviously had nothing further to say to them. Cearul, Lorcan and Meallán moved off to do his bidding but Uileog called out to him. " _Captaen!_ Sir!"

Nuada swung back round and pinned him with an impatient glare. "Yes?"

Uileog had thought to question Nuada further – about the boy and the other two humans - but something in the prince's terse manner gave the older elf pause; he was suddenly unsure of his ground. It was an uncomfortable sensation, one he was not at all used to. In fact, the last time he had experienced it had been several thousand years ago when he'd been about Nuada's age now; he had been getting a dressing down from _Rí_ Balor. He'd long forgotten what for but he did recall the feeling. It struck him that he might be in for another verbal flaying, this time from the king's son. Perhaps he would be wise to give the prince time to master his temper. Noticing Nuada's torn, bloodied pants and the wicked-looking gash on his thigh, he quickly changed tack. "Would you like me to see to the wound on your leg?"

Nuada glanced down in surprise. He hadn't really noticed it, except on the edge of consciousness. He noticed it now though. A searing spasm of pain bit deep in the muscle and he staggered as it threatened to fell him. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his eyes to Uileog's again and snapped out a reply, short and to the point. "No!" Without another word, and with only the barest of limps, he headed for the far side of the ruins, dragging the two unconscious reivers with him. He stopped before a large menhir, where the brambles grew thickest, and let go of the men's arms. For a moment he just stood there, catching his breath and fighting the pain in his leg. And then, with a grim look on his hard, stone-chiselled face, he set about his business…

 

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Áed: (Irish Gaelic) an old Irish name meaning 'fire'.

Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish Gaelic) the term for a magical race in Irish mythology - can be likened to elves.

Berach: (Irish Gaelic) name derived from the word _biorach_ meaning 'sharp'.

Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Clan na Dáirine: (Irish Gaelic) Dáirine Clan. The Dáirine were the proto-historical rulers of Munster

prior to the 7th century AD and may have been an especially violent tribe based on the cognate meaning of their name ( _Dari (o)_ \- tumult, rage). Their ancestors are known as the Clanna Dedad in the Ulster Cycle, one of the four great cycles of Irish mythology.

Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).

Cult of the Severed Head and Celtic influences generally:

Arguments have been advanced for the existence of a Celtic Cult of the Severed Head based on surviving Celtic mythology, extant carvings, and the writings of early Roman and Greek historians. Diodorus Siculus writes of the Celts in his 1st-century _History_ that: "They cut off the heads of enemies slain in battle and attach them to the necks of their horses. The blood-stained spoils they hand over to their attendants and striking up a paean and singing a song of victory; and they nail up these first fruits upon their houses, just as do those who lay low wild animals in certain kinds of hunting."

Though the generally accepted view is that Celtic origins are to be found in the Hallstatt culture (the predominant Central European Culture from 8th – 6th centuries BC), some historians argue for a different locus of origin and pattern of spread (i.e., developing in coastal settlements and spreading inland into Europe) at a much earlier date (c. 1300 BC). I've taken the earlier date and a very loose reading of history as the basis for some of the details in this chapter.

Fearghal: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'man of valour'.

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'rough one'.

Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of _Mathghamhain_ , a name meaning 'bear'.

Meallán: (Irish Gaelic) possibly means 'lightning'.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Sióga (she-o-ga) ( _s._ sióg): (Irish Gaelic) fairies, elves.

Tadhg (TAYG): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'poet' or 'philosopher'.

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'warlike' or 'fighter'.

Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'.


	5. Chapter 5

Uileog glanced at the young _captaen_. _What on earth was he up to?_ The humans were spread-eagle on the ground, face up and still unconscious, whilst Nuada was using his magic to carefully and patiently coax the brambles around them to life. The long, arching canes quivered and twitched, shaking off their winter veil in a gentle shower of ice. Gradually, the movements became more pronounced until, at last, the thorny stems bowed down low to the ground and snaked out over the snow-frosted grass, heading straight for the unconscious men.

Uileog scowled at their inert forms. He was still loath to bring up the subject of the two humans - and the boy as well - though he knew he must. That the prince had returned to the ruins as abruptly as he'd disappeared was nothing remarkable in itself; the instant Nuada had set out after them, every elf present knew the men could count what was left of their lives in mere heartbeats and breaths. What surprised the elven company was that he'd brought them back with him. Alive. According to the king's law, they should have been executed, swiftly and mercifully, though in Uileog's private opinion they deserved a whole fother of pain for what they had done that day rather than any easy sort of death. And given that Nuada was obviously in no hurry to kill them, it seemed he agreed.

But no matter what Uileog thought and no matter what anyone else thought, Crown Prince Nuada included, the king's law was the king's law and _no one_ had the right to gainsay _Rí_ Balor. It was Uileog's duty to remind the prince of this but the younger elf had such a forbidding air that even he, the oldest and most experienced of the warriors and the one whose job it was, hesitated to offer so much as a word of advice.

Then too, there was the matter of the boy. Though Uileog had a great deal of sympathy for him, the young human was part of a raiding party which had killed almost an entire elven village. He should have been put to the sword along with the rest of his murdering kin. Instead, he was alive and under Nuada's protection. The king was not going to be happy.

As he helped Cearul consign the last of the dead war dogs to the flames, Uileog's frown deepened; he would have to say _something_ and say it soon. But before he could think of an opening - one which might spare him the sharp edge of the prince's tongue - a shout from another warrior caught everyone's attention, Nuada's included.

The Elven prince looked up at the sound. Meallán stood a little way off, staring down at the reivers' horde of goods, which was piled up near their horses and the stolen livestock. Even at this distance Nuada could see the disgust on the other elf's face. He turned back to his prisoners and checked his handiwork. The brambles had climbed up over the men's limbs, coiling tightly around ankles and calves, forearms and wrists, and were now burrowing into the cold, hard ground, anchoring their captives firmly in place. Needle-sharp thorns dug into linen and leather and living flesh as the sinewy plants made sure of their hold. Satisfied that the humans would not be going anywhere if they regained consciousness, Nuada took a tentative step towards Meallán. His wounded leg bore the weight, though only just, and he continued on his way, his limp a little more noticeable than before.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he joined the others.

Meallán gestured at the store of goods. "Is there no end to their foul ways?"

Nuada turned his gaze to the pile. At first, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Furs, weapons and riding tack were stacked up around a large, weather-worn boulder. There were saddle bags too, made from rawhide and stuffed full of silver ore and other precious metals: stolen goods, obviously, but nothing to account for the revulsion in Meallán's voice.

Nuada looked more closely. The light from one of the fires reflected off something lying amongst the horde of loot and he leaned in for a better view, expecting to see a nugget of unworked silver or perhaps a dull gemstone which had fallen out of one of the saddle bags. A gelatinous eye stared back at him instead, and the strong, earthy scent of cedar oil, underlaid with the stench of decay, rose up to meet him. The expression on his face mirrored Meallán's as he realised just what it was he was looking at.

He drew his sword and reached into the heap. Pinning the rotting head with the tip of his blade, he attempted to hook it free from the rest of the humans' treasures. It didn't come away as easily as he'd expected and he soon discovered why. The half-frozen lump of mouldering flesh and bone was attached to a thick rope of twine… along with three other severed heads. Dark, gaping holes grinned up at him, shrunken lips baring yellowed teeth and shrivelled gums. Lumps of gristle were all that were left of the noses and in one case, not even that; the blackish-grey, withered remains of what had once been a living, thinking mind sprouted out of the fleshless orifice. Only three eyes – staring and unseeing - still sat in their sockets: pulpy, viscous orbs held precariously in place by half-decayed nerves. Patchy hanks of hair stuck to putrefied skin, grey, green and black with rot. It didn't seem possible that the filthy, crumbling things had ever drawn breath.

Nuada and the other warriors stared down in disgust. Several of the _madraí cogadh_ pushed in past their elven masters to sniff at the grisly remains. Uileog ordered the dogs away and Nuada slid the flat of his blade under the twine and picked up the hideous necklace, holding it out at arm's length. Firelight and moonlight threw the rotting heads into sharp relief.

"By Aiglin!" The words burst forth from Nuada's lips, unbidden. He had thought – assumed – they were all human but he recognised one of them as a lubber fiend, and his face twisted with renewed loathing for the man - or men – who had killed the harmless magical creature. There was truly no end to their foul ways, not that he needed any further proof of it; he was glutted enough already. Heedless of the pain in his leg, he swiftly crossed to the nearest fire and flung the grotesque trophies onto the flames. Saffron fingers crackled and leapt and set about cleansing the bones of all flesh and brain matter, finishing off what the corruption of death had started.

Nuada turned away from the fire and his eyes fell on Treasach again. The boy had raised a tear-stained face and was staring at the unmoving figures of his father and clansman. He was cradling the dead baby elf in his arms.

Nuada's gaze caught on the still, tiny form and his conscience set to work with a vengeance. He had been so certain he would get the baby back alive; even now he couldn't believe that he hadn't. What had he done wrong? How could he have so badly mishandled the situation? A suffocating weight pressed in on all sides, threatening to crush him. _Failure!_ The word resounded in his mind. He looked away from the small, silent body but though the sight of her could be banished, the memory of her death could not and a creeping sense of shame began to gnaw at his gut.

Uileog had no idea what Nuada was thinking; he only noticed the prince's hesitation and so took his chance. " _An Ridire_! A word, if you please."

Nuada swung around to face the older warrior. He winced as the sudden movement sent a sharp stab of pain shooting through his leg. Even despite that, he was glad of the interruption this time... the distraction. "Yes?"

Uileog crossed over to where the young _captaen_ was standing, and lowered his voice. "Need I remind you of the king's edict?"

Nuada knew exactly what the other elf meant and likewise kept his voice low. "Those two will meet their deaths - _eventually_ ," he said, nodding at the unconscious men. "As for the boy, there is no honour in killing him. Besides, he did his best to help the baby. He cannot be held accountable for the actions of his kinsmen." To Nuada's annoyance, he sounded defensive - yet another sign that he was second-guessing himself.

"Those two should be dead _now_ and so should the boy, regardless of what he did or didn't do," Uileog reminded him. "And as for _honour_ , _Rí_ Balor sees honour enough in such an execution. He will not be pleased if you disobey his decree." There was a hint of hesitation in Uileog's next words. "It is not too late to rectify the matter. If you give the order, I will see to it."

"No!" Nuada found himself the centre of attention. He lowered his voice again. "I will not order any of the _Cosantóirí_ to do what I am not willing to do myself. In any case, the boy is blameless; he does not deserve death. I'll answer to my father for my actions."

Uileog was secretly relieved at the reply but he could not give up without one last attempt. He opened his mouth to speak again.

Nuada held up his hand and cut him off. "The king will be duly apprised of your objections. I take full responsibility for what I do. Now, is there anything else you wish to discuss?" His words were once again shaded with impatience.

The older warrior finally admitted the argument lost; Nuada could be as intractable as his father. All Uileog could do now was ensure the prince had given some thought to the details. "What will you do with the boy?" he asked.

The reminder of his earlier quandary brought Nuada up short. He hadn't had time to consider the matter further. "I - I will…" His voice trailed off.

"Yes?" prompted Uileog.

Nuada scowled at him. "He can come back to Bethmoora with us."

A troubled look settled on Uileog's face; the pitfalls of that idea were immediately apparent. "But what is there for him in Bethmoora? What will he do there?"

Nuada's scowl grew darker as he scrambled for an answer. "Perhaps – perhaps one of the human families who live in the forests beyond the citadel will take him in."

"Perhaps," muttered Uileog, clearly unconvinced. "But you will more than likely find _Rí_ Balor puts him to death long before you get the chance to make enquiries."

"My father would not do such a dishonourable thing!" exclaimed Nuada hotly. Once more, he attracted the attention of the other elves… and of Treasach himself this time.

"Your father is the most honourable elf I know," agreed Uileog. "But he has his reasons for his laws and I doubt he will change his mind."

"I know my father too," replied Nuada, "and I know he will not kill the boy, not now that I've guaranteed his safety."

Uileog couldn't help but notice there was less heat - and less certainty - in the prince's voice. "Will he not?" Giving Nuada no chance to answer, he pressed home his point. "Have you ever known your father to rescind a law? _I_ have not and I am more than four thousand years old. The king is one of the most ancient and powerful of us all, and has walked this earth for far more years than you can imagine. He has seen things, done things – has knowledge – that no one else has. Only he knows his reasons for his laws, and we must trust in him. Are you absolutely certain he will not have the boy put to death once we reach Bethmoora?"

Nuada stared at Uileog in frustration; he was not at all certain. In fact, the more he thought about what the other elf had said, the more he knew it to be right and he was forced to concede the point. "It would be a hard thing to deliver the boy up to death having promised him protection," he murmured at last. "I cannot leave him here though. That would be equally fatal."

As if to punctuate his words, a ravening howl rose up from deep in the forest on the far side of fields. The elven warriors glanced towards the trees whilst the war dogs growled threateningly.

"I'd forgotten about the wolves," murmured Uileog.

" _I_ had not," said Nuada. His flame-gold eyes skimmed over the bodies of the slain humans lying scattered around the enclosure before settling briefly on the two unconscious men by the bramble patch. A sneer flickered across his face before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. His brow creased in thought as he searched for an answer to the dilemma of the boy.

"Perhaps his own village…" suggested Uileog.

Nuada's frown deepened. He had seen and heard enough in the humans' camp to get a good idea of how Treasach was likely to be treated by his remaining kinsfolk but he could come up with no better alternative. "I suppose it will have to be that," he agreed reluctantly. "I will take him back there after I've dealt with those two." He nodded at the sprawling men once more.

Uileog cleared his throat. " _Before_ might be better," he suggested with a pointed look at Treasach.

Nuada immediately saw the sense – and compassion – in the other elf's words. He gave a curt nod. "You are right. I'll return him to his village first."

"I can deal with the prisoners whilst you're gone," offered Uileog, his voice hard as he glanced towards the two unmoving men. Theirs were deaths he would happily see to, and in the back of his mind was the thought that in this matter, at least, he could ensure the king's orders were followed.

"No!"

The terse reply cut through the air like a knife, startling the older elf.

Nuada found himself the centre of attention yet again. "No," he repeated. "They are mine."

Uileog realised he had reached the limits of the prince's patience; there was nothing more he could say or do. "Very well, _Captaen_ sir. I await your command."

Nuada knew exactly what needed to be done whilst he was gone. "Load up the humans' horses with the goods that were stolen from our people today. Then get the livestock ready to travel and bring up our own horses from the forest."

"Yes, Sir!"

"When I return, I will see to those two and then we can leave this accursed place."

"After we have performed the _d_ _easghnátha naofa_ ," murmured Uileog, thinking out loud.

"We will _not_ perform the sacred rites," Nuada said. "At least, not in this place we won't."

"But what of the baby?" asked Uileog, surprised. "And the land?" His brow furrowed in confusion.

Even though Nuada was determined, and even though he knew the questions were only to be expected, he hesitated once more. How to explain it? As he tried to order his thoughts, he looked around the ancient fortress. His eyes rested briefly on the towering, weathered stones which had stood watch here through the ages, and then turned to the fields and beyond, where the tall trees of the forest – living sentinels – stood watch in their turn. It was the custom of his people to leave their dead where they had fallen, or close to where they'd fallen, and to cleanse the land with the fire of Elven magic. The life-sustaining Earth deserved no less, he knew. What he was about to do went against everything his father had ever taught him - against everything he believed in and held dear. But to do otherwise… that went against every instinct, and every instinct told him he was right.

"I will take the baby back to the village with us," he replied. "She should lie with her kinsfolk - not alone, amongst the rotting corpses and bleached bones of her murderers! And as for the land…" He paused for a moment, and drew a steadying breath. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard with menace, and there was no hesitation, no uncertainty – no self-doubt – in anything about him. "I will not stand in the shadows, hiding behind justice served unseen… What good is justice – _Elven_ justice - if _we_ are the only ones who know it has been done? Let the stain of Evil remain on this place. Let it serve as a clear warning to any human who passes by. Let him, or her, feel the sorrow… the darkness… and _know_ that any wrong against any one of our people will be avenged." He pinned Uileog with a look that brooked no argument. "You have your orders. See that they are carried out." With that, he turned away and limped over to where Treasach was sitting.

Uileog stared after him in dismay; things had just gone from bad to worse. _Rí_ Balor's edicts were falling like blades of grass beneath the scythe of Prince Nuada's vengeance and as sure as the world turned, there would be a reckoning of a very different sort when they got back to Bethmoora.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Cedar oil: an essential oil obtained from certain types of conifers, mostly belonging to the pine or cypress families. Cedar oil from true cedars was used in the embalming process by the Ancient Egyptians because of its insecticidal properties.

Celtic Cult of the Severed Head: arguments have been advanced for the existence of a Celtic Cult of the Severed Head based on surviving Celtic mythology, extant carvings, and the writings of early Roman and Greek historians. Diodorus Siculus writes of the Celts in his 1st-century _History_ that: "They cut off the heads of enemies slain in battle and attach them to the necks of their horses. The blood-stained spoils they hand over to their attendants and striking up a paean and singing a song of victory; and they nail up these first fruits upon their houses, just as do those who lay low wild animals in certain kinds of hunting. They embalm in cedar oil the heads of the most distinguished enemies, and… display them with pride to strangers." Such information needs to be treated with caution however; Siculus writes from a second-hand source rather than from direct observation, and there is still much scholarly argument over the existence of such practices.

Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).

Deasghnátha naofa: (Irish Gaelic) sacred rituals.

Fother: Medieval measurement of weight – a cart-load, or about 191/2 hundredweight (8 stone = 1 hundredweight.) Also means 'a huge amount'.

Lubber fiend: (English folklore) a helpful creature, similar to a hobgoblin, who will do domestic chores in exchange for a saucer of milk and a place in front of the fire. Usually described as a large, hairy, man-like creature with a tail.

Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.

Meallán: (Irish Gaelic) possibly means 'lightning'.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Ridire: (Irish Gaelic, from Old Irish _ritire_ – "rider, knight") Sir (nobility – knight).

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'warlike' or 'fighter'.

Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'.


	6. Chapter 6

Treasach looked up as the towering figure of the elven warrior came to a halt in front of him. Although he had been spared thus far, he feared that was about to change. He glanced nervously at the supine figures of his father and Mathúin. There was every chance he would wind up beside them and there could be only one end for him – for all of them – after that. The familiar twinge in his bladder started up and he suddenly found he had more than death to worry about. It was bad enough whenever it happened in front of anyone else but his shame would be a thousand times worse if he disgraced himself in front of _this_ warrior.

"Where is your village?" asked Nuada.

The softly-spoken question held an edge of menace to Treasach's ears and his fear took yet another turn. He had no doubt that the elves were going to repay the _Clan na Dáirine_ in kind and that meant Órfhlaith and her mother, Áine, would soon be no more. Their spirits would be sent scattering to _Tech nDuinn_ along with his. He felt sick to his stomach. Words, never easy at the best of times, were impossible now – not even to plead for his own life or theirs, though he was certain that even had he had the oratory skills of the Druids', they would do him no good with this one.

Nuada saw the anguish in Treasach's eyes and guessed something of his thoughts. He crouched down level with him. "I mean only to return you to your home," he said. "You will not be harmed. We do not slaughter the innocent." He couldn't resist adding, "Unlike your clansmen."

Treasach – all too used to reading the nuances of his kinfolks' manner and speech, ever alert for the tell-tale signs they were about to amuse themselves at his expense – saw nothing but truth in the elf's eyes. His fear eased and he glanced at his father again.

" _Their_ lives are forfeit," said Nuada. He wanted no misunderstanding on that score.

Treasach stared outright at the two unconscious men. He found no joy in the thought and no sorrow either. Garbhán had long since ceased to have any meaning for him beyond feeding him and clothing him and beating him, and their deaths were only to be expected after what they had done to the elven village. "A-Arigneach," he mumbled.

"What?" said Nuada, straining to catch the name.

Treasach hung his head. "Arigneach," he repeated but though he tried to speak carefully, his misshapen jaw still mangled the word.

Nuada sat back on his heels and lifted the boy's chin. "Look at me when you speak," he said, not unkindly.

Had it not been for that, Treasach might not have been able to manage another word. The warrior's fierce golden gaze was fixed on his face with unnerving intensity. Treasach steeled himself and did as he was bid. "The Mountains of Arigneach," he said, fighting every urge to pull away and cower before those piercing eldritch eyes. "My – my village lies on the upper slopes." As always, he felt as if he was speaking through a mouthful of moss but the elf nodded in understanding and released his chin and Treasach slumped with relief. He hugged the stone corpse of the baby even tighter.

"I know the place," said Nuada. "I will take you there soon. But first…" He paused and held out his hands.

It took Treasach a moment to realise that the warrior wanted the baby. He looked down at her cold lifeless body. "I'm sorry, _acushla_ ," he said quietly before handing her over.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Nuada hesitated and then he took the dead child from Treasach. Cradling her in his arms, he stood and swiftly turned away. Sorry indeed, he thought, and not the only one. His unseeing eyes gazed out past the ancient circle of stones…

He pulled himself up short. Whatever blame he bore for her death, this weakness – this… _self-pity_ – helped nothing and no one. He forced himself to look at the baby, at her frozen perfection. _Acushla._ It was a fitting endearment. She was smooth and white and so delicately formed. And so light too, scarcely any weight at all, and her life had been within his grasp. _I too am sorr_ y, he wanted to say but the words turned to ash in his mouth. Instead, he placed her carefully at the base of the nearest standing stone and summoned the remaining war dogs. After setting them to guard over her body, he took hold of Treasach and within the space of a breath they were standing near the outskirts of the boy's village.

Treasach stared at the familiar scene, confused, disbelieving and amazed all at the same time. "It – it would've taken us maybe a – a se'n night to get here," he gasped.

The corner of Nuada's mouth quirked in amusement and he thought it strange he could any feel any such thing on a night like this. The paths of light – the ley lines of his people: such ordinary things to an elf perhaps but obviously something special to the human boy – something he would remember for a very long time. Nuada was glad to have been able to do at least that much for him. "Our people travel on different paths," was all he said though.

Treasach nodded solemnly.

"Which lodge is yours?" Nuada scanned the assortment of snow-covered roundhouses snuggled into the side of the hill, behind a low, semi-circular stone wall. It was by far and away the largest human settlement he had ever seen and the talk he'd overheard in the reivers' camp suddenly took on new significance. He would need to report every detail to his father, the king.

"That one," replied Treasach, pointing to the largest building.

Nuada paused, not quite certain how to phrase his next question. "Will – will you be welcome there? Safe…"

Treasach gazed down at his feet. _Safe!_ Not the word he would have used but it did well enough, he supposed. "Y-yes," he started to say and then he remembered the elf's earlier instructions. He raised his head, looked straight into those strange lupine eyes, and started again. "Yes. I'll be safe." He hesitated and then added, a little self-consciously, "The – the Druids cast a prophecy for me – when I was born."

Nuada arched an eyebrow. "And that will keep you safe?"

Treasach felt his colour rise. Though the prophecy had been with him since birth – indeed, was so vital a thing that he wouldn't be alive without it – it struck him now as presumptuous to lay claim to it for how could it ever be fulfilled? The warrior before him – a skilled fighter, tall and true, and one born of magic – had surely had a hundred such prophecies told of him. If anyone was destined for greatness, it was he. Not a useless, misshapen boy who couldn't even lift a sword. Treasach hung his head again and mumbled, "It – it will."

Nuada laid a hand on his shoulder. "I am glad your prophecy will keep you safe from your kinfolk," he said. "And sorry too that it has to serve such a purpose."

Treasach shrivelled up inside and wished he could sink into the ground. Pity, he discovered, was even worse than scorn.

"But it was no prophecy that kept you safe from elven justice tonight," continued Nuada. "It was your own courage and kindness."

Treasach's head shot up in surprise and then dropped again, just as quickly. His heart swelled in his chest; he didn't know what he felt. It was a strange sensation, a weakness almost. His kindness had only ever earned him the derision of his clansmen, and as for courage… well, he would not have said he had any.

Nuada's hand slipped from Treasach's shoulder and he stood silent for a moment. The humans who lived in the forests beyond Bethmoora – the ones he had first thought to leave him with – were certainly no worse than the boy's kinfolk and if it were known that he was under the protection of Prince Nuada of Bethmoora then Treasach could look forward to far better treatment than he had ever received at the hands of his clansmen. But Uileog was right. To take him back to Bethmoora would be to sign his death warrant. Balor's law was immutable; there would be no escaping that… The prophecy would have to do.

Treasach shivered in the cold night air and shuffled his feet, and Nuada realised it was time to say farewell. Even so, he was reluctant. "Is – is there anyone in your clan who stands as friend to you?" he asked. He didn't hold much hope of hearing anything in the affirmative but to his surprise, Treasach's face crinkled in a brief smile.

"Aye," said the boy. "Órfhlaith is my best friend and Áine is nice to me sometimes."

Though Nuada knew neither Órfhlaith nor Áine, he gave silent thanks to the gods for their existence. They lightened some of the weight on his own shoulders. "I am glad of that," he said, and then he looked away and lapsed into silence again.

"Should – should I go now?" asked Treasach hesitantly after a moment or two.

Nuada's gaze cut back to the boy. "Yes," he said. "It's time to go now. Time to go home."

"Aye," whispered Treasach, suddenly despondent. Home. What would it be like with no _Da_ there? There would be no more beatings, for sure, and that should have made him happy but he felt a strange, restless yearning. He wanted to know more about the elves, see where they lived – _how_ they lived. Learn everything about them… The idea took root and flourished, all in an instant. "Can I come with you?" he blurted out.

Nuada was taken aback by the abrupt question. He should have expected it, he realised. From what he had seen tonight, it was a not unreasonable one. He furrowed his brow. "No. You must stay here. You'll be… safer."

Treasach's face fell and though he desperately wished to go to Elfland now, he didn't dare press his case. He couldn't believe he had had the nerve to ask in the first place.

Turning away from the boy's obvious disappointment, Nuada looked out over the valley. "My father, _Rí_ Balor -" He stopped short.

Treasach gawped at the warrior's stark, chiselled profile. _Not only the Elf King's champion but his son as well!_

"If I take you to Bethmoora," said Nuada, changing tack, "you will die." There it was. The truth. Blunt and bare. He attempted to soften it. "And even if it were not so, do you not think Órfhlaith and Áine would miss you?"

And with those words, Treasach's idea withered and died. Órfhlaith _would_ miss him and Áine might too sometimes and besides, he didn't want to die – though he didn't know why he would have to just because he went to Elfland. "They – they would miss me," he admitted.

It was a reprieve of sorts and Nuada gratefully seized on it. He turned back and clasped Treasach's upper arm and shoulder, in the way that one warrior might greet another. "You have my thanks for what you did tonight," he said. "For what you tried to do. You are worth more than all your clansmen put together."

Colour flooded Treasach's face again, though this time it was from the embarrassment of modesty rather than from any sense of shame. He felt as if he had just grown several inches taller and indeed, he stood a little straighter. He would never forget this moment.

"And speaking of your clansmen," – a chill settled over Nuada's features – "I have a message for them, if you would oblige me by carrying it."

Treasach agreed without hesitation. "Aye! I will!"

"Tell them," said Nuada, his voice as sharp as chipped ice, "tell them that what they do amongst themselves, amongst other humans, is of no concern to the elven _tuatha_. But when they wreck havoc on _our_ lands, steal our possessions and our lives, spill our blood… they should know what to expect in return. Tell them what happened tonight and tell the next _Toísech_ to make sure they understand what it will cost them if they ever steal from us or harm any one of us again."

"I – I will," whispered Treasach. He quailed at the thought of delivering such a message to his people but deliver it he would. He could only hope they took heed of it.

Nuada inclined his head and then released the boy and stepped back. "May the gods watch over you, Treasach of Arigneach."

Treasach's eyes widened in surprise; the Elf King's son knew his name!

"And know too that you have a friend in Prince Nuada of Bethmoora."

It took a second for the words to sink in and when they did, Treasach was overwhelmed. He didn't know what to say. The elven prince – Nuada – had given him both his name and his friendship! Treasach settled on the only thing he _could_ say to such generosity: a heart-felt "thank you."

At that moment, from somewhere inside the sleeping village, there came the low, threatening snarl of a dog and then the feral howl of a wolf rang out in the valley below, as if accepting the challenge. Both Nuada and Treasach looked towards the sound and Nuada was reminded that he had other work to do. He turned back to the boy. "Go now," he said. "I will wait until you're safe inside."

"Thank you," whispered Treasach and with that, there was nothing more to be said. He raised his hand in farewell and limped into the village.

As Nuada watched him go, a memory sprang to mind of a time when he and his sister, Nuala, had been about the boy's age. They had been in the meadows of Bethmoora and had found a large, newly-hatched butterfly lying tangled in the long grass. It was trying to flutter its wings – burnt-orange with black spots on top and silver-washed green underneath – but they had not fully unfolded and never would, being as bent and misshapen as they were. Nothing could be done to help the creature. Still, for the brief span of its life it had had its own beauty and he and Nuala had walked on, silent for a little while…

Treasach was at the threshold of the lodge now. A child grizzled from within, a dog began to bark in earnest and the muffled voice of a woman drifted out through the opening. The occupants of the other dwellings started to stir. Treasach turned back and waved to Nuada one last time and then went inside, calling out quietly in his distinctive voice, "It's only me, Áine."

Looking up, Nuada saw that the moon had started to dip in the sky. His face hardened; it was time to finish the night's work. He turned to the east – to where the ancient fortress lay – and in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "warlike" or "fighter".

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of _Mathghamhain_ , a name meaning 'bear'.

Clan na Dáirine: (Irish Gaelic) Dáirine Clan. The Dáirine were the proto-historical rulers of Munster prior to the 7th century AD and may have been an especially violent tribe based on the cognate meaning of their name ( _Dari (o)_ \- tumult, rage). Their ancestors are known as the Clanna Dedad in the Ulster Cycle, one of the four great cycles of Irish mythology.

Órfhlaith (OR-la): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "golden princess".

Áine: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "radiance".

Tech nDuinn: (Irish Gaelic) the Land of the Dead (literal meaning 'The House of Donn', Donn being the Irish god of the dead and the Otherworld as well as other figures in Irish mythology. Tech nDuinn is often described as lying at the tip of the Béarra Peninsula on the south-west coast of Ireland although other stories have it as a realm that exists beyond this conceptions of the land of the dead are not synonymous with those of the Otherworld (e.g. Tír na mBeo, Mag Mell, Tír na nÓg) though they are often close to them.

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'rough one'.

Arigneach: (Irish Gaelic) Former name for Arigna, a village in County Roscommon, Ireland.

Acushla: (Irish Gaelic – dated term) an affectionate form of address; dear one. From _a_ oh + _cuisle_ darling, literally, pulse, vein, from Old Irish _cusle._

Se'n night: archaic term for a week or seven nights.

Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'; de na Abhcóide Ciallmhar – phrase meaning 'of wise counsel'.

Dadaí: (Irish Gaelic) Daddy (pronounced DAH-dee), "da" for short.''

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Tuath (plural _tuatha_ ): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Faolán (FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.

Silver-washed fritillary butterfly: a common butterfly in the UK and Ireland (and other places.) The upper side of its wings is orange with black spots and the underside is green with the silver streaks that give it its name.


	7. Chapter 7

Nuada found the other elves waiting with the horses and livestock, ready for travel as he had ordered.  The pyres, which held the remains of the dead war dogs, blazed and roared and spat out sparks.  Over at the furthest edge of the ruins, beyond the firelight, Garbhán and Mathúin stirred in their thorny bonds.

“Is the boy safe?” asked Uileog as his _c_ _aptaen_ approached.  “You had no trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” replied Nuada without breaking his stride.  “And the boy is as safe as he can be in such company.”  He carried on past Uileog. 

The older elf turned on his heel and watched the prince pick a swift trail through the human corpses that littered the ground.  He was making straight for the two reivers; it was obviously time to have done with them and not a moment too soon. 

Nuada reached their spread-eagled forms.  He stopped and drew his sword.

The men had regained full consciousness by now, Mathúin first and Garbhán a moment or two later.  Dazed confusion gave way to terror as they took in the sharp hiss of silver and the dark, looming figure of the elven warrior.  They struggled against their bonds but the cold from the frozen ground had seeped into their bones and their movements were sluggish.  The brambles held fast and only bit deeper into their flesh.  All the while, Nuada stood silent and still.

“For the love of all that’s sacred!” cried Mathúin, his eyes bulging and his breath coming in harsh pants.  “Have mercy on us!”

Garbhán tried to add his plea to his clansman’s, but Nuada’s fist and the pommel of his sword had done their work; the only thing that came out of the _Toísech’s_ mouth was a thick, choking sound and he felt he might pass out again from the shock of pain in his pulverised jaw.

A cold smile touched Nuada’s lips.  Without a word, he placed the point of his sword at the base of Garbhán’s chest.

The Chieftain’s injuries were no bar to the scream that burst forth from his throat.  He tensed and closed his eyes, certain that the killing thrust was only a heartbeat away.  He felt a sharp prick as the sword-tip pierced his clothes and skin, and then – nothing!  At least, not death!  Only a frigid rush of air and a swift, stinging sensation down the length of his torso.   Garbhán’s eyes flew open – the elf was walking around to Mathúin’s side now – and he went weak with relief.  Against all hope, he was still alive.  Perhaps they would be spared after all!

He had no time to dwell on the thought.  An angry shout rang out from somewhere within the ruins and Mathúin moaned in distress beside him.  Garbhán looked over to see his clansman staring back at him – or rather, at his midsection – in horror.  Following the line of Mathúin’s eyes, he raised his head and looked down along his torso.  His mind froze:  incomprehension; disbelief; and finally, sick dread.  It clogged his throat as he sought desperately to deny what he saw: intestines – _his_ – glistening wet in the moonlight.  His stomach had been split open, muscle and skin torn past all hope of healing.  He looked back at Mathúin, aghast, but there was no help or comfort to be had there.  His kinsman was being dealt the same fate.

Mathúin screamed and heaved in a futile attempt to get away from the flashing sliver blade, but his struggles only increased his suffering; his bloodied guts slopped out onto the cold, frozen ground beside him.  He still lived though.

Nuada’s face was expressionless now.  To his dismay, his sword-arm was shaking.  He turned and stared out into the darkness, beyond the standing stones.  After a moment’s hesitation, he once more whispered a summoning in the ancient tongue of his people, this time to the starving creatures that lurked in the trees.  The words had barely left his mouth when there came back a low chorus of avid growls and his arm was violently seized.

“By the Gods, Nuada!  Stop what you’re doing!” cried Uileog.

Startled, Nuada wrenched free from his grasp and spun round, almost taking off the other elf’s head with his sword.  At the last moment, he managed to pull up short.  “Justice must be dispensed,” he snarled as he stepped back and put down his weapon.  His arm was still trembling.

Uileog’s heart pounded in his chest; he was took several deep breaths and instinctively rubbed his neck.  “You – you must know there is no justice in – in _that_!”  He gestured towards the mutilated humans.  It was now clear what Nuada intended and though Uileog had privately thought the men deserved every bit of pain inflicted on them, he felt sick at the thought of _this_.

Nuada wavered, but his eyes fell on the small, still figure of the baby elf and his resolve hardened.  He tightened his grip on his sword, pinned Uileog with a fierce stare, and said, with not the slightest hint of irony, “If you haven’t the stomach for it, then leave!”

However, Uileog could not leave; he had to do _something_.  He went for his own weapon but before his hand had even touched the hilt, the sharp edge of Nuada’s blade was at his throat again.

“Will you spill your own blood?” Nuada demanded to know.  “Mine?  Theirs?” – he paused and nodded at the other elves – Lorcan, Cearul and Meallán – who had drawn close by now – “for filth like that!”  He fairly spat out the words as his head jerked towards the reivers.

It was an impossible situation, Uileog realised.  He would not spill so much as a drop of elven blood over the men: enough had been lost already.  But the savagery of what Nuada planned…  To be eaten alive…  Though the gorge rose in his throat, Uileog was forced to admit there was nothing he could – or would – do.  He raised his sword-hand to Nuada’s weapon and slowly pushed it aside.  “No,” he said bitterly.  “I will not spill any more blood over them.”  He paused before adding, “I will, however, do as you suggest.  _An_ _Ridire_!”  And with that, he turned his back on Nuada and headed for the horses.

Nuada’s brows drew together as he stared after Uileog’s retreating figure but he ruthlessly ignored the stab of disquiet that tore through him.  Instead, he faced the other elves.  “If any of you want to go with him, you can leave now,” he said.  “You might as well make a start with the livestock.  It will be morning before we’re back at the village – or what’s left of it.  Take the _madraí cogadh_ with you, to keep the wolves away.  I’ll bring the humans’ horses and stolen goods when I’m done here.”

There was no hesitation on Meallán’s part; he immediately turned and started off after Uileog.  Cearul was likewise firm in his decision but rather than leave, he stood beside Nuada.  Lorcan stayed where he was, looking miserably from one lot to the other.

“Go if you wish,” Nuada said to him, his tone more measured now.  “I’ll not think the worse of you if you do.  In fact,” – he turned to Cearul – “it might be better if you went with them.  There is no sense in any one else facing my father’s wrath over this.”

Cearul shook his head.  “I cannot leave – not after what I’ve seen today.”  He glanced at the two men, who were moaning in distress, and muttered, “Even though it makes me -”  He stopped, shook his head again, and then continued on, more resolutely.  “They have brought this on themselves.  It is only a small part of what they deserve.”

The pounding of hooves and bleating and lowing of livestock broke in on their conversation and the three elves looked over as Uileog and Meallán left the ancient fortress, driving the sheep, goats and cattle beasts before them with the war dogs covering the flanks.

Nuada spoke to Lorcan.  “You had best go now.”

“No,” replied the other elf.  “I – I will stay.  If this can somehow – balance the scales…”  His voice trailed off.

Nuada fixed him with a hard look.  “If you are certain - ”

Lorcan nodded and Nuada turned back to the humans.  In the shadows, behind the standing stones, the dark forms of the wolves ranged back and forth, their yellow eyes glinting gold in the firelight.

“You had my word I would spare your lives,” Nuada said to the helpless, treacherous men.  “You only had to give me the baby and you would have been on your way back to your village now.”  His fists clenched and his voice rose.  “Why, by Aiglin, did you not - ”  He stopped short; it was a pointless question.  Regaining his composure, he echoed Cearul’s words.  “You brought this on yourselves.  What the wolves don’t want, the channering worm can have.”  And with that, he turned away from them.

Garbhán and Mathúin screamed in mindless terror; all hope was gone, even that of a quick death.  The wolves drew closer, weaving in and out of the ancient stones, venturing further and further into the circle.  Heedless of the elves, they pawed and ripped at the human corpses near the outer edges.  Skirmishes broke out over the spoils as bodies were rent limb from limb.  Leather and woven wool was devoured whole along with everything that lay beneath.  With the sound of tearing flesh and crunching bones ringing in their ears and the acrid stench of blood filling their nostrils, the **_Toísech_** and his clansman closed their eyes against their fate and called upon every god they knew to save them…

The elven warriors had now readied the humans’ horses for travel and Nuada cradled the body of the baby elf in one arm.  They were about to mount their own horses when Cearul looked over at the doomed men.  He frowned.

Nuada caught sight of his expression and paused, one foot in the stirrup.  Unease stabbed at his conscience once more.  “Do not ask for mercy for them,” he said harshly, thinking that the other elf had perhaps changed his mind.  He lowered his foot and dropped the reins.

“That is the last thing I would do,” replied Cearul, still watching the reivers.

“Then what is on your mind?”

Cearul met Nuada’s eyes.  “You should not bear this burden alone.”  He dropped his own reins and started towards the men.

Nuada stared after him for a moment, puzzled, and then quickly followed him through the litter of corpses and feasting wolves.  As he went, he transferred the weight of the baby elf to his left arm and reached for his sword.  He had no idea what the other warrior was going to do, despite his words.

Cearul reached the men and knelt down between them.  They looked up, their eyes alight with a burst of unexpected hope – though whether for life or death, it was impossible to say.  Cearul ignored their silent entreaty.  He removed his fur-lined gloves, flexed his fingers, and whispered for the weather to come to him.

Nuada, still none the wiser as to what his companion intended, stood silently to one side, watching, waiting for some hint.

As Cearul spoke, a rush of air hit the group.  In a night already at freezing point, the temperature dropped even further.  The space around them became so cold that each gust of wind was a sharp, cutting torment on their skin and each breath they took burned in their lungs.  A white mist swirled about the weather-smith’s hands.  It seeped into his skin, turning his fingers into translucent sculptures of ice, and his lips thinned, as if in pain.  It was not enough to stop him though.  He splayed his hands and reached out to touch Garbhán and Mathúin’s eyes.  Each man gasped at the sudden needle-sharp stabs of cold.  Cearul then lifted his hands and whispered to the weather once more.  The white mist seeped back out of his hands and floated on the air before dissipating into the darkness.  He worked his fingers to get the feeling back into them, slowly at first and then more vigorously as the blood started pumping.

Nuada leaned in and saw that Cearul had frozen the men’s eyelids shut: purple, spider-web veins stood stark against brittle shells of ice, from which hung thick, black eyelash spikes.  The elven prince opened his mouth to ask for what purpose but Cearul was not done with them yet.

He drew his dagger and turned to Mathúin.  Placing the point carefully over the crest of one eyeball, he tapped the hilt gently with the flat of his hand.  With the faintest chinking sound, Mathúin’s eyelid chipped off and fell to his cheek.  The other lid quickly followed and a pair of terrified brown eyes rolled desperately in their sockets.  Cearul then turned to Garbhán and did the same to him.  When he had finished, he sheathed his dagger, pulled his gloves back on and stood to address the men.

“You gave no quarter to _any_ of our people today,” he said fiercely.  As he spoke, he glanced at the dead baby girl who lay in his _captaen’s_ arms, and thought of the three elven babies he had found impaled on a pikestaff at the razed village.  “You deserve no mercy from us and I would hate to think you missed one single moment of your own deaths.”  He raised his eyes to Nuada, partly defiant – as though he expected the prince to take issue with what he had just done – and partly seeking affirmation for the deed.

Nuada looked away and back again, once more shaken.  But what Cearul had done was no worse than what he himself had done and he was the one who had started them on this path in the first place.  He nodded briefly to the other elf and said, “It is only fitting.”

An awkward silence fell upon them, broken only by the ragged moans of the reivers, and then Cearul inclined his head and started back to the horses.

Nuada followed, without so much as another glance at the mutilated lumps of living flesh staring up, terrified, from the brambles.  He focused, instead, on the dead child in his arms, and as he picked his way back through the carnage in the field, a snatch of conversation he had overheard in the humans’ camp came back to him:  _they_ would not have meat to last until _Imbolc_ but the wolves just might.  It was about the only good thing that could possibly come out of this night now.  He reached the others and mounted his war horse.

After one final check on the pack animals, they set off, Cearul at the head of the line, Lorcan on the flank and Nuada bringing up the rear.  They had just crossed the open field and entered the trees when an awful scream rose up from the ancient ruins.  Several of the horses snorted and skittered sideways but Lorcan quickly calmed them and they continued on their way.  None of the warriors said anything or looked at one another; they all knew what the sound meant.  But despite their determination to wreak vengeance on their people’s murderers, none of them rode so straight in the saddle any more either.

Another scream rang out and Cearul and Lorcan’s shoulders hunched over even further.  They kept their eyes fixed doggedly on the way ahead, trying to concentrate on the dull thud of the horses’ hooves and the soft noises of the living animals.  Neither noticed Nuada rein in his horse and nor did they notice that for the span of some dozen or so moments, he was no longer with them.  A third scream filled the air and they quickened the pace and then it stopped full-throat.

After that, nothing else disturbed the frozen stillness of the night except their passage.  They rode on, through bare-limbed trees and brittle thickets, across sleeping meadows and ice-clogged streams, through all the hours until dawn and with barely a word between them.  As morning approached, star-flecked black gave way to dark velvet blue, fading through from cerulean to the palest shade on the eastern fringes.  Delicate wisps of cloud glowed fiery, burnished pink as they scattered the first rays of the sun, and the snow was limned with gold in the early light.  Only the brightest of the night’s stars were visible in the firmament now.

It was normally his favourite time of day but Nuada hardly noticed the beauty around him.  He felt apart from nature, as if he was suffocating under some strange weight.  Drawing in lungfuls of crisp, clean air, he attempted to shake off the miasma of the night but it only settled more heavily upon him.  He now avoided looking at the child nestled in the crook of his arm.  It seemed to him that he had failed her twice over: once in not saving her life and then again when instinct and upbringing had forced him back to the ancient ruins to despatch her murderers.  They did _not_ deserve mercy and yet mercy was what he had granted them in the end.  His eyes flickered from Lorcan to Cearul, who were still riding ahead.  Thankfully, only he himself knew of that last failing.  He would never speak a word of it to anyone, not even his sister, Nuala.  Though she might sense something through the connection they shared, she would never know the details.  And as for _Athair_ , with his clear, shining sense of justice and mercy…  Nuada could no longer be convinced of it and he knew his father would judge him to have failed there as well.

A shout from somewhere ahead roused him from his thoughts.  He looked up and saw that the sun had fully risen now.  The blackened remains of the elven village were visible through the gnarled, frosted branches of the trees and one of the warriors who had stayed behind to guard _Máistreás_ Sadhbh and her brother, Faolán, was waving to them from the edge of the glade.  Cearul and Lorcan acknowledged the greeting and the sentry returned to join the activity in the warriors’ camp.

On reaching the clearing, Nuada discovered that Uileog and Meallán had arrived not long beforehand, and, to the bewilderment of the warriors who had not accompanied them on the night’s expedition, the two parties studiously avoided each other as they prepared for the return journey to Bethmoora.  There was little talk amongst the elven company; they stayed only for as long as it took to give the horses and other animals a short rest, feed and water them, and then strike camp.  The last thing they did was lay the elven baby with her kinfolk.

Nuada found no solace at all in the sacred rituals this time.  When the child had still lived, he had thought that perhaps she might be _Máistreás_ Sadhbh’s missing baby and he could salvage something out of the night.  He knew now that she _was_ the elven woman’s child but there was nothing to be saved.  Sadhbh was distraught with grief and Faolán stood helplessly beside her not knowing what to say or do and trying to fight down his own anguish:  another youth who had seen too much this past day, though he would fare better with his own kind than the human boy, Treasach.

Finally, everything was done that could be done and the warriors and their charges mounted and turned north, to Bethmoora, with Nuada once more bringing up the rear.  As the company entered the trees, he stopped at the edge of the clearing and turned back for one last look at the sad vestiges of all those lives cut short.  His eyes skimmed the blackened timbers and fallen stone.  It was a pointless indulgence, he told himself sternly; he would find no sense in any of it.   He wheeled his horse back round, eager to leave this silent, lonely place, and as he urged the stallion forward, he was swamped by a sudden longing for home.  Though he had finally admitted that _Rí_ Balor would be angry with him when he returned, he had never needed to see his father and sister more.  The feeling consumed him – it could not be shaken – and as he rode, he barely noticed the roiling black gash in the sky to the north, the portent of another coming storm. 

* * *

 

**References:**

Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'.

Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning ‘rough one’.

Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of _Mathghamhain_ , a name meaning ‘bear’.

Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.

Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.

Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.

Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.

Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.

Meallán: (Irish Gaelic) possibly means ‘lightning’.

Ridire: (Irish Gaelic, from Old Irish _ritire_ – “rider, knight”) Sir (nobility – knight).

Madraí cogadh: (Irish Gaelic) war dogs.

Channering:  old Scottish or English word meaning ‘gnawing’.  Probably part of a regional dialect.

Imbolc (i-molk): one of the four Gaelic festivals of the seasons, this one marks the beginning of spring.  It is usually held 1st February, roughly half-way between the winter solstice and spring equinox.  Originates from the Old Irish _i mbolg,_ meaning "in the belly" (referring to the pregnancy of ewes.)  The date is thought to have had significance in Ireland since Neolithic times (4000 – 2500 BC).  For example, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages (built 3000 – 2500 BC) on the Hill of Tara is aligned with the rising sun on this date.

Athair: (Irish Gaelic) Father.

Máistreás: (Irish Gaelic) Mistress.

Sadhbh(SAH-eev): (Irish Gaelic) name likely meaning 'sweet' or 'goodness'.

Faolán(FEH-lahn or FAY-lawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'wolf'.

Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning “warlike” or “fighter”.


End file.
